


i will be there at your side (to remind you that i still love you)

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: !!!, Agoraphobia, Also Peach Pie Discourse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Blanket Nests of Defense, Blowjobs, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Cookie Discourse, Cooking Successes!, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Pet Names, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, Self-Acceptance, Self-Doubt, Steve Rogers Gets a Hug, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, alot of kissing, and so many i-love-yous, cooking disasters, handjobs, listen it's soft and sweet riddled with some not-so sweet things that are handled with loving hands, okay, self-deprication, some of the cooking scenes are more detailed than necessary okay, there are a lot of hugs okay, this is so unbearably suagr-sweet don't @ me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: A slice-of-life detailing snippets of recovery for a certain Bucky Barnes, aided by those who love and cherish him. Bucky hasn't been outside Steve's apartment since he was released by SHIELD and deemed 'safe'. He doesn'tfeelvery safe. How could he possibly go outside, when that would mean the sun on his skin, fresh air in his lungs and anything but keeping himself locked away? He already doesn't deserve the love Steve has for him, or the sweetness of oatmeal-raisin cookies with too much sugar in them, or the softness each morning seems to bring. Except, maybe. Maybe he might possibly perhaps be allowed to let himself enjoy and appreciate things. Maybe he might possibly perhaps be allowed and evenencouragedto do nice things for himself. Maybe he might possibly perhaps be deserving of love.





	1. and you want to travel blind (and you think maybe you'll trust him)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome! To my blanket nest of unbearably soft things! Get your goddamn toothbrush ready! 
> 
> This fic doesn't go into too much detail of the Winter Soldier's trauma, more like post-coming-in-from-the-cold-recovery. Bucky and Steve are both dealing with their things, but luckily they have supportive people around them to work things out as they come. Please read the tags! All the warnings should be in there. 
> 
> The fic will come in 3 or 4 parts, I'm not sure yet. I've most definitely got at least 3 parts written out, but I'll see where the end of part 3 goes to determine whether there will be a part 4 or not! (Also depending on the response I get whoops.)
> 
> This is unbeta'd! It's been read over by a few people to make sure it's not absolute shit, but no beta'ing. Whoops. So yeah, all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy! Lemme know what you think! Fic title is very much from Love of My Life by Queen yohoho. Chapter One title is from Suzanne by Leonard Cohen.

Bucky’s been living with Steve for four months and he hasn’t yet gathered up the courage to go outside. It worries Steve, he knows, that he hasn’t actually  _ left _ the apartment since SHIELD deemed him ‘free to go’. Since he turned himself in after all the HYDRA bases were razed to the ground, nothing but soot and smoke left, since all the heads were cauterized and he was left with—nothing. No purpose. No  _ mission.  _

It’d taken him only a week to turn up at SHIELD’s doorstep. It’d taken Steve an hour to talk the chains off of Bucky’s wrists; something he’d afterwards berated Steve for. It’d taken seven months of intense deHYDRAtion, as it has been called. Therapy, trigger-work, mental assessments, physical assessments. An all-around seven month headache, and he came out the other end feeling like he’d been put through a damn meat grinder. 

But he’d come out the other end and fallen into Steve’s arms and mumbled  _ take me home, please.  _

Now, he has skype therapy three times a week, for at least an hour. The woman he talks with, Shira, is kind and patient and on really bad days she lets him sit in silence, there to talk if he needs. She tells him that he’s allowed to want things, allowed to go outside, allowed to let Steve take care of him. 

She tells him lots of things, but he struggles with actually accepting them. Steve tells him the same things too, but in a roundabout way; he says,  _ Buck, we’re out of coffee, wanna come to the store?  _ He says,  _ Buck, the weather’s real nice today, wanna go for a walk?  _ He says,  _ Buck, your shirts are full of holes, wanna come pick out some new clothes?  _

But Bucky just shakes his head and watches another cooking show, texts Steve a list of groceries to get while he’s out and makes them both dinner when he gets home. Thing is; Bucky’s good at cooking. It’s easier to do when it’s for the both of them; he doesn’t get all guilty about doing things that, heaven forbid, might be selfishly for  _ himself. _

And that’s the thing that gets him out of the apartment, in the end. Steve’s already out; gone to pick up milk or something. Bucky’s sitting in front of their laptop talking with Shira, and she’d telling him that, yes, he’s allowed and  _ encouraged  _ to bake the cookies that Steve doesn’t like but Bucky  _ loves.  _ He’s allowed to bake them just for himself. That’s a thing people do. People do things for themselves because they deserve to, especially if it makes them happy. 

“But it makes me feel  _ bad,  _ too,” Bucky protests, torn in a hundred different directions. 

Shira doesn’t sigh, she doesn’t look disappointed. “You can work on that, Bucky. You know that. You like oatmeal raisin, Steve doesn’t. If it helps, maybe cook two different types. What’s Steve’s favourite?” she asks. 

“Shortbread,” he grumbles, looking away. 

He sees Shira smile gently from the corner of his eye. “Well, there you go. That’s where you can start. Bake some oatmeal raisin for yourself, and some shortbread for Steve. Then you’re both happy, and you’ve thought about Steve as well.”

Bucky knows she's right, and this feels—okay. It feels okay. He can do that. He nods, feeling determined, and straightens up from the position he’d been in; curled up, hunched over and swaddled in blankets. “What if—what if Steve decides he wants some of my cookies but I don’t want to share?” he asks quietly, voicing the very selfish thoughts that run around his head whenever Steve steals the last bits of peach pie off of Bucky’s plate. 

Peach pie is something they both love equally, and they often end up squabbling over the last bits. Steve always wins, and Bucky doesn’t mind, but sometimes  _ he  _ wants to finish off the pie. 

“That’s okay, Bucky. You’re allowed to tell him you don’t want to share. Hide them away if you have to,” Shira suggests, a twinkle in her eye. 

Bucky sighs and nods. She’s totally right. It’s like the time he’d put away two slices of peach pie to have the next night and then Steve had gone away on a short mission and come back  _ hurt,  _ so Bucky had given him the pie to make him feel better which was  _ fine,  _ but Bucky had  _ wanted  _ that pie. He’d baked more, but  _ still.  _

Shira senses that they’ve gotten all they can out of today’s session, so she wraps them up. “Bucky, I want you to try and find something that’s just for you in the next couple of days, okay? Even if you don’t buy it. I just want you to find something you think would be nice to have for  _ yourself _ , and think about having it, okay?” she asks of him. 

Bucky presses his lips together and tugs the blankets a little tighter around himself. He nods, mumbles his thanks, and they agree to talk again on Tuesday, which is three days away. He can always call her whenever he needs, but he’s been needing to do so less and less and they both agree that this isn’t a  _ bad  _ thing. 

Once the skype call is ended and the laptop is powered down, Bucky wanders over to the kitchen and turns the stereo on. He listens to whatever CD Steve’s left in, and gets about making two batches of cookies. He makes the shortbread first, then while they’re in the oven he mixes together his oatmeal raisin. 

He maybe has a small moment where he’s wrist-deep in creaming butter and sugar together and panics, taking a moment on the kitchen floor and telling himself  _ you’re allowed you’re allowed think of Steve’s face he’ll be so happy to have his shortbread and you  _ know  _ he’ll get that big dumb dopey smile he gets whenever you do something for yourself.  _

And he gets himself together and bakes the damn cookies and has the two different types in the warming tray by the time Steve gets home, milk and other miscellaneous food products in his bag. Bucky’s sat nervous in the kitchen, and Steve can immediately sense that  _ something’s  _ going on, and he walks over slow like Bucky’s gonna spook. 

“Smells good, Buck,” he says, putting the groceries on the counter and sidling up to Bucky for a kiss. 

Bucky smiles up at him and tilts his head to receive the kiss on the cheek, flushing as Steve’s hand travels over the span of his shoulders, rubbing gently. Bucky makes himself relax as the touch reminds him he is tense as a damn power pole, and lets out a sigh. “I made cookies,” he says, burying his face in Steve’s chest. 

Steve obligingly wraps his arms around him and holds him tight. “Yeah? What kind?” he muses, pressing a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head

Bucky whines, feeling stupid and shaky because he already  _ knows  _ Steve will be proud of him. “Shortbread f-for you,” he starts, muffled against Steve’s shirt. “And, uh, o-oatmeal raisin, for, um, for me,” he manages, his voice climbing higher with each word. 

Steve pulls back a little, hands coming up to cup Bucky’s face and—he’s wearing the exact expression Bucky knew he would. He looks so stupid when he grins like that, and Bucky’s heart flutters every time. “Buck, that’s great! We can both have our favourites. You haven’t made oatmeal raisin in  _ ages.”  _

Bucky’s entire face feels like a firetruck. “S’cause you don’t  _ like  _ it,” he mutters, looking away.

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmurs, turning Bucky’s face back to look at him. Steve’s grin has dimmed into a soft, warm smile and Bucky wants to see that expression  _ forever.  _ He’s already got thirty different pictures of it. “I know you’re working on doing things for yourself with Shira, and I’m so happy and so  _ proud  _ of you, okay?” he says, voice all bright and gooey and Bucky just  _ melts.  _

He pulls Steve back to him and buries himself in the hug, not letting him go until Steve’s stomach growls. They eat the cookies together. Bucky’s first one feels dry as a bone, and he can’t enjoy it, it tastes like damn  _ ash,  _ but he’s looking at Steve and Steve’s enjoying his cookies, so. Why can’t Bucky?

And then Steve’s complimenting him, telling him how good it is, maybe the  _ best  _ shortbread he’s  _ ever  _ done, and Bucky’s blushing and ducking his head and—okay, he can have this. He can have his damn oatmeal raisin and he’s  _ allowed  _ to enjoy something all to himself because  _ he  _ likes it. 

The next cookie tastes a bit like heaven. 

It’s a huge step forwards, and Steve doesn’t let him forget it when Bucky wakes up the next morning and just. Doesn’t wanna get out of bed. He feels like  _ shit,  _ like he’s the worst person in the world, and he just curls up in a ball and pulls the blankets over his head. Steve always gets up first, goes for his run and returns in time to make them both coffee and bring it to Bucky to drink as he wakes up. 

So this is how Steve finds him as he walks into the room, the smell of coffee reaching Bucky even under the mass of blankets. Bucky hears him pause at the doorway, and curls a little tighter around himself, feeling pathetic and  _ sad.  _ But Steve is a wonderful human being, no matter how much peach pie he steals, and he sets the mugs of coffee down on the bedside table and comes to sit by the mound of blankets that is Bucky. 

“Hey, Buck,” he murmurs, and a hand comes to rest on Bucky’s shoulder. 

Bucky spares a brief thought on wondering how Steve knew that’s where Bucky’s shoulder was, before he lets out an utterly  _ miserable  _ noise and turns his face to press it into the mattress. 

“Oh, Buck,” Steve sighs, once he’s established that this isn’t a relapse or and angry day, it’s just a sad day. 

Bucky makes the noise again, higher-pitched this time, hoping it translates as it’s supposed to. Steve understands his sad-noises, is well versed in them, even. But Bucky’s face is smooshed into the mattress and he has at least seven blankets on him so he’d forgive Steve if he couldn’t understand. 

But Steve makes a sympathetic noise in return and tugs a little at the top of the blankets. He manages to get a hand under and then pulls the blankets back until Bucky is revealed like the sad little wonder that he is. He doesn’t move, just lets Steve drape himself all over him and hold him close. When Steve pulls the blankets back over top of them, Bucky falls in love all over again. 

Steve pets at his hair, presses kisses into his skin and murmurs sweet things that Bucky’s brain tells him are lies, but Steve never lies to him, so Bucky  _ tries  _ to believe him. Yes, he deserves to make oatmeal raisin cookies for himself and only himself to enjoy. Yes, he’s allowed to tell Steve off when he eats all the peach pie and doesn’t share. Yes, he’s allowed to wallow in bed all day if he needs to. Yes, Steve is so, so proud of him. Yes, he is—he is beautiful and kind and soft and wonderful and Steve  _ loves  _ him. 

Bucky’s not sure how long they stay under the blankets, but eventually he falls back asleep and when he wakes up, Steve hasn’t moved but for the blankets being pulled back just enough to get them some air. 

“Love you,” Bucky tells him, and his voice betrays how close he is to crying. 

Steve presses another kiss to Bucky’s temple and Bucky whimpers because his heart feels too damn big for his chest. “I love you too, Bucky,” Steve says and  _ his  _ voice is shaky too, but it’s full of conviction and pride and support and Bucky just starts damn crying because Steve is  _ so much. _

Once he’s let it all out, Steve gets them sitting up in bed, blankets pulled tight around their shoulders. They drink cold coffee and lean against each other, and Bucky gives Steve a smile and Steve lights up like Bucky’s the best damn things he’s ever seen. And, thing is, even with his mess of bed hair, eyes red-rimmed and watery, cheeks blotchy and nose running, Steve tells him he  _ is  _ the best damn thing he’s ever seen. 

Which of course sets Bucky off crying again. 

They spend the day that way. Steve gets up to make hot chocolate and warms a plate of their cookies up. He brings the laptop with him and they watch studio ghibli movies until Bucky’s eyelids start drooping and he feels all warm and cozy and soft from the food and  _ Steve.  _ He sleeps through the night, despite having done nothing all day, but Steve reminds him that his brain has been very busy so he deserves the rest. 

The morning after is only the day before Bucky’s due to talk to Shira again, and he still hasn’t found anything he might want for himself that he can buy. He’s feeling a lot better today, and he sits up in bed to drink warm coffee with Steve, then he makes a  _ huge  _ breakfast to make up for the lack of food yesterday. 

Steve sings terribly along to the CD he puts in the stereo, someone called Imagine Dragons, and Bucky tries not to laugh too much as Steve reveals that he knows  _ every single word.  _ It’s endearing and headache inducing all at the same time. 

They sit at the dining table and eat the spread of eggs and hash browns and sausages and greens and toast. There is very little talking, at least up until they’re both sitting back in their seats with hands over their stomachs, groaning. The food probably could have fed at least ten people, and they’ve put it away in under twenty minutes. 

It’s the lack of eggs they now face that gets Bucky thinking. He  _ could _ go online and find something he’d like to buy for himself and only himself,  _ or… _

Or, he could go to the farmers market to get eggs and maybe have a look around for something that he would maybe potentially possibly get for himself maybe one day  _ maybe.  _ He could, theoretically, do that. It’s possible. He is physically  _ capable,  _ even. It’s a thing that could happen.

And Steve must sense the gears reluctantly turning in Bucky’s head because he looks up from the food coma he’s been wallowing in and narrows his eyes. “What you thinkin’ ‘bout, Buck?” he manages, and he even  _ sounds  _ full. 

Bucky narrows his eyes right back before looking down at his plate. Thing is, he’d not been outside this damn apartment in  _ four months.  _ It would be a big step to take. It would be a  _ huge  _ step to take. He’s not exactly ready for it, but the longer he stays in here the more complacent he becomes. Steve’s been trying to get him out for the entirety of the four months, but he’s been too caring and worried to actually force Bucky out. 

Bucky is the only one who can make Bucky get his ass outside these walls. 

Heaving a sigh, Bucky closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Steve’s transparent and overly loving expression. “What’re you doing today?” he asks quietly. 

“I was gonna head to the gym with Sam, actually.” A pause. “Did you, uh, wanna come with?” 

Bucky opens his eyes and looks at the ceiling. He presses his lips together and his brain goes into overdrive;  _ yes  _ and  _ no  _ clashing together into a confusing mess of panic. It must translate onto his face because Steve hurries to reassure him that he doesn’t have to, don’t worry about it, it was just a suggestion. 

And Bucky feels like a tool, because Steve’s just trying to  _ help  _ and Bucky’s gone and made him feel like he stepped on his toes. “No, I—I’m sorry, Steve, I just.” He stops and clears his throat, looking at Steve and reaching over to take his hand. He can’t find the words. 

Steve squeezes his hand and gets this soft look on his face that has Bucky calming down. “It’s okay, Buck. In your own time.”

“Don’t stop asking?” Bucky whispers. 

Steve looks surprised, but  _ pleased,  _ and everything in his expression just reads  _ oh, Buck.  _ He doesn’t need to say anything, so he just nods, and Bucky nods back, and that’s that. 

Steve clears the table and puts everything in the dishwasher. They neck a little against the counter because Bucky’s feeling really good about everything right now, despite the screeching panic in the back of his mind as a secret plan is devised. Steve leaves once he’s sure Bucky’s well and thoroughly kissed, waving like a dork as he shuts the door, the tips of his ears red as tomato sauce. 

Bucky’s the one grinning like a dope as he waves back. 

He goes to the window to watch Steve walk away down the street, and then he’s moving and very resolutely  _ not thinking.  _ He laces up his boots for the first time in four months and pulls on a hoodie and some gloves and he grabs his backpack and doesn’t look in the mirror because then he’d start thinking about how he  _ looks  _ and he makes sure he has his wallet and then— 

And then he’s shutting the door  _ behind  _ him and he’s standing in the hallway. 

He stops there and stares around him, bewildered. He hasn’t seen the hallway since he first came here, and he hadn’t exactly looked around when he had. He’d just wanted to be  _ home  _ and  _ safe.  _

There’s a plant sitting happily under an ugly painting next to their door. Bucky wonders briefly if Steve waters it, or if someone else does. He wonders who chose the painting, because it clashes  _ horribly  _ with the colour of the wallpaper. Then he’s wondering who painted the walls in the first place, because he can see where they didn’t tape up the skirting just right and there’s licks of white paint over the cream of the walls and— 

He’s stalling. 

He takes a deep, ragged breath and tugs his hood over his head. He can totally do this. 100%. Absolutely. He’s gonna—he’s gonna walk down the hall, walk down the stairs, walk outside and go to the damn farmers market. He’s gonna buy some eggs and he doesn’t have to talk to anyone, not really, he just has to hand over some cash and then he can leave. He doesn’t even have to  _ look  _ at anyone. 

And maybe he’ll see something that he likes and he’ll be able to tell Shira tomorrow that he saw something and thought that he might maybe like to have it. 

He steels himself and takes a few deep breaths while he’s still leaning against door. He’s got two hours before Steve gets back home. And then he thinks—oh. If he does this, if he manages to actually get to the market and come home with eggs, he’ll be able to tell  _ Steve  _ that he did it, and Steve will be  _ so proud  _ he’ll probably  _ cry.  _

Bucky takes another deep breath and takes a step forwards. 

Steve will probably be proud that he got this far, actually. He doesn’t have to go all the way to the market. Or even down the hall, really. He could say,  _ Steve, I went into the hallway  _ and Steve would probably just about pass out with joy. 

But then he’d have nothing that he thought about liking for himself to tell Shira. He could always make something up, but that defeats the purpose. He wouldn’t actually be making any progress. He’d be  _ lying.  _

So he gathers himself and takes another step. He looks down at the plant and then back at the hallway and he blows out a breath and imagines all his worries are being exhaled. Then he hunches his shoulders and walks. 

He has to stop at the entrance to the apartment building, because he sees an overwhelming amount of people and he nearly freaks out and thinking about burying himself in the damn concrete or something, anything to hide, but he takes his time to think it through. He used to be a ghost. He can do this. He can blend in and no one will notice him but if they do he can disappear in a second and he won’t have to stab anyone. 

He probably shouldn’t have brought his knives, actually. But then the thought of going out with no weapons has his skin crawling, and he shakes it away. 

And then he’s walking out of the building and melding with the pedestrians. He’s careful, no one touches him, he’s not jostled and all his senses are straining, picking up conversations and cars and he can sense when someone’s about to bump into him and he’s sidestepping and picking up the pace and  _ oh God  _ he’s outside. 

He’s breathing far too harshly, and he’s  _ sweating,  _ but he’s still walking. It’s not far to the market, and he barely has to look up, having memorised the route the last time he thought about this. He hadn’t even gotten near the door, last time. He’d curled into a sad little ball on the couch and shook until he was too exhausted to stay awake. 

Steve had found him like that and he’d worn those sad puppy eyes and Bucky had stress-baked until three in the morning. 

This time around, in comparison, things are going  _ much  _ better. 

And he makes it. He gets to the market before eleven, which means the eggs shouldn’t have sold out yet. He knows the stall that Steve gets them from and looks up just enough to read the banners and signs that are out. People seem to know not to go near him, and he doesn’t think about that too hard because then he’ll start thinking about the fact that he probably looks  _ scary  _ and he  _ hates  _ looking scary, even though right now it’s helping him out. 

He’s breathing hard again by the time he locates the correct stall. There are three cartons of eggs left, claiming to be  _ free range, organic, local.  _ He takes a deep breath and ducks out of the way of the people walking, and comes to stand in front of the stall.

He’s shaking.

“Hello! Can I help you?” comes a cheery, kind voice. It’s the type of voice that should match ruddy cheeks, grey hair and bright eyes.

He swallows against a dry throat and looks up through his eyelashes, just enough to see the person and show them his face. So he doesn’t look  _ scary.  _ And he looks at the person, takes in their kind face and their warm expression, and his shoulders drop from around his ears. He sees the moment they realise that Bucky isn’t  _ scary,  _ he’s  _ scared.  _

Their face softens even more, if possible, and thin, wrinkled hands come to rest on top of the eggs as Bucky’s eyes flicker to them. “Would you like some eggs?” they ask. Bucky nods. The stallholder smiles, and it’s so gentle Bucky could cry. “That’s seven dollars. Do you have cash on you?” 

Bucky nods again, and fumbles for his wallet that’s tucked into his jeans. He pulls out the correct cash and puts it on the table, in front of the eggs. The stallholder doesn’t check it, just pushes over a carton towards him in return. Bucky goes to take them, but pauses, his breathing picking up again. 

He should—he should say something. He talks to Steve and Shira all the time, even talks to Nat and Sam when they come to visit. He’s not—he  _ can  _ talk, and this person who’s voice matches their lovely face has been so  _ kind  _ and  _ understanding.  _

“Are you alright, hon?” the stallholder asks quietly, all concerned, and a lump forms in Bucky’s throat. 

Bucky nods again, and takes the carton of eggs. He clears his throat and looks up from where his eyes had dropped to his feet. “Th-thank you,” he blurts out, immediately going red. 

The stallholders worried frown smooths out into a beatific smile. One of their eyes is cloudy, Bucky realises, but it just adds to their charm. “You’re welcome, hon. Get home safe now, you hear? And I’ll make sure there’s some eggs for you next week,” and they’re reaching out to pat at one of his gloved hands and he  _ doesn’t  _ flinch back. 

He nods numbly, unable to chance a smile because  _ holy shit  _ he  _ did it.  _ He wanders away almost in a daze, slowly coming to terms with the fact that he left the apartment, he got to the market, he bought the eggs, and he even  _ thanked  _ the stall holder. And the stallholder told him to come back! 

He shudders, thinking about the fact that they’ll have eggs set aside for him next week. If he doesn’t come pick them up, the stallholder with  _ worry.  _ He doesn’t want that. They’d been so kind to him, the least he can do is make the effort to...go outside again and get some eggs. Again. He’s done it once. He can do it again. Right?

He realises he’s walking blindly when he nearly bumps into someone who’s stopped to look at a stall. He sidesteps in a hurry, flinching away from the near miss, and finds himself following the person’s line of sight. He’s looking at soaps, Bucky realises. And then the  _ smell  _ hits him, clouds up his sinuses and his head goes a little hazy because  _ oh wow.  _

It smells really,  _ really  _ good. 

He’s taking a step forwards without thinking about it, as though drawn by magnets. The stallholder looks up from another customer with a smile on his face and waves as though to say  _ I’ll be there in a second.  _ Bucky freezes, fear locking down his limbs because this wasn’t in the plans. He didn’t—this wasn’t—he should go, before he ruins everything and freaks out. 

But then he’s focusing on the overwhelming array of smells and his eyes are drawn to the bright yellow of one of the soaps. It seems to have some purple flowers in whatever the soap’s made of, and he wants to pick it up to smell it. He can’t discern that soap’s smell from the others. 

And he realises then that he’s found something he maybe sort of wants. And it’s—it would be for him. Sure, Steve could use it— _ if he asks nicely,  _ his brain supplies—but it would be solely for  _ Bucky.  _ And that overwhelms him even more than the smells. 

“Feel free to pick any up. Is there something you’re looking for in particular?” 

Bucky looks up in surprise, having lost himself to the thoughts that are still very much buzzing around in his head likes bees. He takes a step back, pulling his lip between his teeth and looking down again, completely thrown for a loop. He’s allowed to pick up the yellow soap, right? The stallholder  _ said  _ he could. 

And he’s already talked once today, to a complete stranger. He bought eggs. He left the  _ apartment.  _ He takes a shaky breath and opens his mouth to speak, looking up and finding nothing but patience on the man’s face. He’s got nice, deep brown eyes, Bucky realises, and he finds himself relaxing. Or maybe he’s just getting high from all the soap smells. 

But words fail him, and he feels his cheeks flush, and he looks down again, scowling. Maybe he  _ can’t  _ do this. He’s achieved all of the things he set out to do today, and he  _ knows  _ how proud Steve and Shira will be of him, so he could turn and  _ go  _ and it’d all be okay, but— 

But his eyes are on the soap again. Shira had said that he should find something that he wants for himself, and he has, but the  _ objective  _ of that task was to work him up to actually  _ buying  _ that thing for himself. To use it. For himself. Because even though he was a brainwashed assassin who killed a lot of people and was generally not a very nice person— _ machine— _ he still...deserves nice things? Sometimes? Maybe? Possibly? 

And, oh, God. That’s a Very Bad thought to follow, one he hasn’t ever thought about in  _ public,  _ and he’s— 

“Hey, it’s all good, sometimes we can’t talk, right? How about—are those Vera’s eggs? They’re the best, huh, they’re such a lovely person.”

And Bucky’s looking up again, staring at the man in utter confusion, because he’s in the middle of a breakdown and this man is being  _ kind  _ to him. Vera must be the name of the stallholder who sold him the eggs, and they were  _ very  _ kind, so he nods. And then he swallows and looks away, because eye contact is not a thing he can do right now, and his gaze lands on the soap. 

The man must see him looking, because suddenly his hands are picking up the soap and offering it to Bucky. “It’s made from goat’s milk,” the man says as Bucky stares, bewildered. “There’s orange blossom essential oils in it, along with lemongrass, lavender and manuka honey. The orange blossom is really energising, and the lemongrass encourages our brains to make serotonin. The lavender is soothing for both the skin and the mind, while the manuka honey is really good for any skin conditions like dryness, redness, itchiness and eczema. Goat’s milk is just really gentle on the skin, so it’ll help with things like irritation and scars.”

And Bucky’s mind is absolutely fucking  _ reeling.  _ He glances back up at the man, and the man must see that Bucky’s completely out of his depth, because he just proffers the soap to Bucky again. And Bucky—Bucky takes it. He brings it up to his face and inhales, and his eyes flutter shut because  _ holy shit.  _

It smells like heaven. 

He can’t—the thing is, everything that this man says is in the soap would be very beneficial to Bucky. He thinks of how sore and dry the scars around his arm get whenever he uses that cheap dollar store soap they have in the shower. Neither him nor Steve have ever thought to get anything different, because the soap  _ works.  _ It does what it’s supposed to. It cleans. 

But this—this would do more than clean. It would help his skin, and it smells  _ so nice,  _ and he’d really enjoy using it and it would probably make him feel all good and warm inside like he gets when he bakes peach pie and— 

And he thinks of his finger pulling a trigger. He thinks of someone else’s blood drenching his clothes. He thinks of how undeserving he is to even be  _ free,  _ let alone at a market thinking about buying a really nice soap that will help both his skin and his brain. 

He gives the soap back.

The man looks surprised, but he takes it and sets it back down where it belongs. Bucky feels like he should maybe apologise; even wearing gloves, Bucky touched the soap. It’s not good, not anymore. The thought hurts his heart, but it’s  _ true,  _ he’s a  _ killer,  _ he’s not meant to have nice things, shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea. He sucks in a shaky breath and takes a step back. 

“Hey, are you alright?” the stallholder is asking, and Bucky can feel his eyes welling with tears and he just—he needs to go. 

He clutches the eggs to his chest and shakes his head, trying to convey all that he’s thinking, even though what he’s thinking is not nice, no one should ever have to know what’s inside his brain. So, to try and make up for everything, he clears his throat. “I—I’m sorry,” he manages, and then he’s turning and stumbling away, cheeks flaming, vision blurry. 

How he makes it home he’s not sure. He certainly doesn’t remember it. He knows he’s fucked up, knows that he needs to get  _ away,  _ needs to get home and crawl under the blankets and never resurface, so he somehow manages. With the mission objective set, he walks hurriedly down the street and jogs up the stairs and shuts the apartment door and sets the eggs  _ carefully  _ on the kitchen counter and buries himself in blankets. 

He’s very much still there, still shaking, when he hears Steve getting home. He listens to bags being set down, because Steve’s  _ always  _ bringing food home. He listens to Steve walking around in the kitchen, listens to the footsteps stop abruptly. Bucky’s heart is in his throat because he knows Steve’s seen the eggs. 

“...Bucky?” Steve calls. 

Bucky burrows further into the blankets. He wants to disappear, wants to sink right through the mattress and through the floors of the apartment building and right into the cold, dark Earth. But he can’t physically do that, so he just pulls the blankets tighter around him and tries not to cry too loudly. 

Steve’s footsteps get closer, and Bucky wipes uselessly at his eyes, despite being under all the blankets. “Bucky, did—” and his footsteps stop at the door to the bedroom. “Oh, Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky can’t choke back the audible sob that slips out. 

Then Steve’s moving like Bucky’s a spooked animal; all slow and careful. He sinks onto the bed and pulls back the blankets and Bucky miserably sticks his head out. He must look a mess, because Steve’s already sad face just fucking  _ crumples.  _ Bucky doesn’t want to hear him say _ oh, Buck  _ again, so he pushes out his bottom lip and pouts, reaching out with his flesh hand to take Steve’s. 

Steve lets out a shaky breath, like he might cry too, and maneuvers them until Bucky’s curled up on Steve's lap, the blankets over their bodies, leaving their heads free. “Did you go outside?” Steve asks, and his voice is full of wonder, despite the sadness that laces it. “To get eggs?”

Bucky sniffles. “Yeah,” he manages, smooshing his face into Steve’s chest and wiping all the snot and tears off there. He’s surprised he’s even able to speak right now. 

Steve sighs, a hand coming up to pet at Bucky’s hair. “I am so fucking proud of you,” he whispers, and his voice is all soft and sincere and Bucky shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I met Vera,” he mumbles, once he’s had another ten minutes to calm down. 

Steve perks up, and Bucky can sense the happiness that’s radiating from him, like Bucky’s done the most amazing thing in the world and nothing could get better than this. Bucky thinks things could  _ definitely  _ improve, because he’s had time to look over the whole day using one of Shira’s methods, and he knows where he’d gone wrong and where he’d let his  _ intrusive thoughts  _ get the better of him. 

“Yeah? What’d you think of them?” Steve prompts, his clever fingers working at a knot below Bucky’s shoulder blade. 

Bucky, slowly relaxing, leans into the touch. “They’re lovely. They said—they said they’d have eggs for me next week,” he says so quietly Steve wouldn’t have heard it if not for his enhanced hearing. 

Bucky’s pretty sure Steve’s beaming, but he doesn’t move to look. “I’m really, really happy for you, Buck. Do you think you’ll go again? To pick up the eggs?” 

Bucky shivers at the thought, makes a small noise of protest. His brain absolutely doesn’t want to think about doing all of that  _ again  _ right now. He feels like he could sleep for a whole damn  _ week.  _

“No, you’re right. What you did today was incredible, Buck. No need to think about anything else right now.” 

Steve is a mind reader. They settle into silence, and eventually Bucky calms down enough to slip into a fitful nap. When he wakes, Steve is snoozing against the headboard, his neck at what looks like an uncomfortable angle. Bucky shifts carefully, extracting himself, and pads silently to the bathroom. 

He stands in front of the mirror and he stares at himself. 

He looks like shit, sure, but there’s something...soft, about the way he’s holding himself. His eyes are ringed by their usual dark circles, and they look all sunken in and exhausted, but they don’t look  _ haunted.  _ His face is pale and his cheekbones just out too much, but his cheeks no longer appear hollow. He’s swaddled in one of Steve’s jersey’s, and he feels safe. His hair hangs around his face like a curtain, but it’s soft and shiny, not tangled and greasy. 

He looks for a long time, and realises that he has achieved an incredible thing today. He went outside! He bought eggs! He said thank you! He found a thing he might like to buy that would help him be in less pain and will make him smell  _ really  _ nice! And...he might go back and buy it, when he goes to get the eggs from Vera. 

And—oh. He’s smiling at himself in the mirror, and it changes his whole face. He brings a hand up to touch at his jaw, and the scruff there is suddenly too much. He sets up his shaving kit and ends up carefully taking all the hair off, splashing cold water and patting his bare skin dry when he’s done. 

There’s an excited bunch of butterflies fluttering around in his stomach now, and he can’t wait to tell Shira about the day he’s had. Even if it ended not so well, he still achieved great things. He takes a deep breath, watches his shoulders rise in the mirror, and lets it out, watching them drop. Then he smiles again, because he hasn’t seen himself so clean shaven in...forever. He hasn’t done it this century, that’s for sure. 

It’s just barely past nine, but as Bucky returns to the bedroom Steve’s still conked out. He himself feels like he could get back to sleep in an hour or so, and really the only place he wants to be is in Steve’s arms. 

So he peels his jeans off and crawls back onto the bed, gently shaking Steve awake to get him to lay down. Steve grumbles sleepily but goes easy, huffing out a happy little noise as Bucky settles back into his arms. Steve’s back asleep in a matter of seconds, and Bucky just listens to him breathe until he follows, that smile lingering on his face. 


	2. loosen built up tension (let it carry you away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains explicit content! i.e. sexy loving times happen!! as well as many other things such as panic attacks and happy things and progressive happenings. hope u enjoy!
> 
> chapter title from let it carry you by jose gonzalez!!

The smell of coffee wakes him, and he feels like a disgruntled bear being awoken early from hibernation as he rolls over and stretches before burying his face in the pillow. His body is unwilling to sit up, but Steve just huffs out a laugh and sits with him, trailing his fingers through Bucky’s hair until Bucky’s lax and his toes are curling. 

“You want a massage?” Steve asks, voice soft. 

Bucky tenses up, but then he slowly relaxes again as Steve drags his fingernails over Bucky’s skull, sending a shiver through him. It’s not—he struggles to accept things like this, but he also knows how much Steve likes caring for him, so he nods into the pillow and reaches down to tug the jersey off. 

Steve moves to help, and then the better part of their drowsy morning is spent with Steve’s knuckles and thumbs digging deliciously into all the sore and knotted parts of Bucky’s body. Bucky finds himself drifting in a state of bliss, and he barely notices himself getting hard against the mattress. It’s not until Steve starts paying extra attention to his lower back and ass that he realises he’s absently grinding his hips. 

He makes a small noise, part surprised, part wanting. Steve leans over his body, lips coming to press against the shell of his ear. “You wanna flip over?” he asks, voice gone from soft to  _ low,  _ and Bucky shivers in an entirely different way from when they first started this. 

Bucky nods, a whine slipping from between his lips and he urges his sluggish body to turn over. Once he’s on his back, the ache between his legs becomes much more prominent, and he lets out a soft moan. He doesn’t bother looking, already knows he’s beginning to tent the front of his boxers. He simply lets his head rest against the pillows and blinks up at Steve, smiling as though everything here is innocent. 

Steve just smiles back down at him and runs a hand up his torso, fingers digging into the muscles of his pecs. He shifts to straddle Bucky, and Bucky makes a noise like he’s been punched, staring up at Steve with wide eyes. And Steve leans down to capture Bucky’s lips, slow and warm, his hands trailing up and down Bucky’s sides, eliciting soft noises of pleasure from him. 

Bucky’s  _ sensitive,  _ and Steve knows that. Bucky gasps into Steve’s mouth when Steve brings his hands between them to graze thumb nails over his nipples. He ruts up, and Steve presses down, tugging on the nubs even as he rocks against Bucky, still gentle. Bucky moans and Steve swallows the sound, lips moving so tortuously slow against Bucky’s. 

Steve’s still fully clothed, and this is a  _ crime,  _ but Bucky is entirely at Steve’s mercy here and he can’t even bear to imagine moving. Then Steve’s pecking at his lips one last time and shifting down, pressing feverish kisses to the underside of his jaw, lapping at the freshly shaved skin there, a sound of approval rumbling in his chest. 

Bucky shifts his hips, trying to remind Steve that,  _ hey, baby, I’m hard, _ but Steve’s having none of it. He takes his time, apparently set on kissing every part of Bucky’s body. He gets his teeth on Bucky’s nipples, grazes them over his ribs and sticks his tongue in Bucky’s belly button, making him squeal. 

And eventually,  _ finally,  _ Steve’s pressing his thumbs into Bucky’s hips and pulling his boxers down, tucking the waistband under his balls, making Bucky hiss. But then Steve’s putting that angelic mouth right where Bucky needs it, and nothing else matters. His mouth falls open and a positively sinful sigh gushes out. 

His hands come down to tangle fingers in Steve’s hair, not pushing, just to hold, and Steve hums around his dick in approval. Bucky groans, eyelids fluttering, and he leaves one hand at Steve’s hair, while the other travels back up his own body to twist at a nipple. And, chancing a glance down, he sees Steve watching and Steve looks like he’s on cloud fucking nine. 

The sight of him with his mouth around Bucky’s dick has Bucky’s head falling back again, and then Steve’s moving, teasing with little kitten licks and broad strokes of his tongue, swallowing him down and bobbing, kissing all the way up his shaft, getting absolutely  _ filthy,  _ and Bucky is letting out these soft, desperate pants and then Steve sinks  _ all the way down  _ and fucking  _ groans _ and Bucky is  _ gone.  _

He comes down Steve’s throat, his shout taking  _ him  _ by surprise, and then he turns into an entire puddle of mush. He’s vaguely aware of Steve cleaning him up, licking at the mess of Bucky’s dick, and Bucky whines, oversensitive. Steve climbs back up his body and kisses at his neck in apology, a hand reaching down to tuck Bucky away again. 

Bucky sighs, flailing around until he’s got a hand on Steve’s hip, trailing his fingers down to tug at the waistband. He’s still out of it, floating away, but it’s a promise that once he’s got his brain back he’ll be doing something about the hard length that Steve’s rocking against Bucky’s side. Steve’s still sucking a mark into his neck, and Bucky huffs, opening his eyes and turning his head so he can kiss him. 

They neck a little while Bucky recovers, and then Bucky’s shifting to lay on his side, pressing their bodies tight together. He snakes a hand down in between them, cupping Steve through his pants, and Steve  _ whines  _ into his mouth, something that sounds like a  _ please, Buck,  _ following right after. 

“This your plan all along, huh?” Bucky asks him, pulling back enough to move his mouth to Steve’s ear, grazing his teeth along the lobe while he works on getting his hand  _ inside  _ Steve’s pants. 

Steve just shudders, pressing his hips forwards, all desperate for it. Bucky murmurs how good he is, how sweet, while he gets his palm slicked up with the precome that’s made a mess in Steve’s underwear. Steve’s just whimpering in response, his hands  _ all over  _ Bucky, touching like he’ll never get enough. 

Bucky’s totally on board with that, and he starts jerking Steve nice and slow, the slide sloppy and the sound obscene. When Steve starts getting real undone, he makes these grunting noises like he’s an animal or something, and he grips onto Bucky’s hips or his shoulders so hard he sometimes leave bruises that he’ll press kisses to later. 

Bucky  _ loves  _ it, and the surefire way of that happening is to take his time. He plays with Steve, spends an entire minute just exploring the head of Steve’s dick before gripping the base and rolling his balls between his fingers. Steve loses himself in it, face buried in Bucky’s neck, and he’s making these soft little panting noises that start turning into those beautiful drawn-out groans that end up being low grunts as he gets close. 

Eventually, Bucky drinks his fill of all those noises and starts jerking Steve off with purpose, little flicks of his wrist pulling  _ “uh, fuck, Bucky,”  _ from Steve. Bucky shudders out a breath at the sound of his name said like  _ that _ , and captures Steve’s mouth just as he pulls taut and comes. 

Bucky milks him through it, and withdraws his sticky hand from Steve’s pants, making sure to wipe it on Steve’s pants. Steve makes a noise of protest, but he’s in no place to form actual words, so Bucky cleans off the rest of his hand on Steve’s shirt. 

Eventually, Steve looks up from where he seems to have drowned in Bucky’s neck, and the sight of his hair has Bucky laughing, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he does. Steve just presses a kiss to Bucky’s bared throat. Bucky can feel the way his lips curl into a smile as he does it. 

They drink their cold coffee in the shower, and climb out feeling loose limbed and sated. Steve sets about making breakfast while Bucky sets up the laptop for his skype session with Shira. He settles on the couch, finds himself watching Steve move around the kitchen while he waits for the call. 

He’s practically vibrating in his seat; he is feeling  _ so good,  _ like, on top of the world, and he has some of the best news to tell Shira. He’s asked Steve to sit in on the session, too, so Steve will hear about the soap incident that he still hasn’t told him of. Steve must sense that there’s something special about this session, because he raises an eyebrow in question as he presses a fresh cup of coffee into Bucky’s hands. 

Bucky just shakes his head. Steve’s cheeks still pink from the heat of the shower, and Bucky wants to kiss him, so he does. He pulls him in for a quick peck on the lips, and Steve’s smiling like a dope again as he’s sent off to finish breakfast. 

The call comes through not a minute later, and Bucky’s quick to answer. Shira’s face pops up on the screen, and the moment she sees Bucky’s smiling face she grins right back. “Bucky! How are you today?” 

Bucky ducks his head, cheeks flushing as he tries to hide the excessive happiness that’s radiating from him. “Good,” he says simply, and glances up in time to catch Shira raising her eyebrow. He bites at his lip before continuing. “I went outside yesterday,” he tells her. 

She looks surprised for only a second, before it morphs into pride and delight. “Bucky, that’s wonderful!” 

And he continues, because that what he does during these sessions; he talks about whatever’s on his mind and Shira offers advice or explains something he’s confused about or just keeps him talking, depending on what he needs. He tells her about going to the market, about buying eggs and about the soaps, to which she positively beams at him for. 

He tells her about how it all went downhill after the soaps, and she firmly reminds him about all he has achieved, compared to the panic he experienced when it finally all got too much. Steve comes over at some point, sitting down with breakfast, and he’s practically  _ glowing _ . He seems overly pleased at hearing about the soaps, about hearing Bucky talk about something he enjoyed doing, and considered buying even though it wasn’t necessary. 

He tells her about the way Steve looked after him like he always does, and Steve blushes, but Shira just tells them both that she’s happy they have each other. Steve eats his breakfast and moves to clean up the kitchen while Bucky and Shira talk about what Bucky found difficult about the day, and what he might be able to do next time to make it easier on himself. 

Shira suggests that he take Steve, but then she also mentions that maybe it’s a good idea he go to the market alone, sometimes. Give him the chance to be his own crutch. Bucky reluctantly agrees, and so does Steve. The session winds up with Shira encouraging him to return to the market and think about buying the soap. 

As soon as they hang up, Bucky sags back into the couch cushions and closes his eyes, his smile soft and barely there. He’s always tired after he and Shira talk, but this time he’s a  _ good  _ tired. Steve comes over and reminds him that his breakfast is waiting, and Steve’s heated it up again because Bucky had been talking so much. That doesn’t happen often. 

“I’m really proud of you, Bucky,” Steve murmurs as Bucky digs into the feast of eggs on toast. 

Bucky grins at him around a mouthful, and Steve laughs, pushing at his shoulder playfully. Bucky nudges him with his elbow in retaliation, and narrows his eyes in warning as he focuses on his breakfast. 

Once he’s done, they curl up on the couch together and Steve plomps himself in Bucky’s lap, curling around him like a koala. Bucky doesn’t protest, just wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck, breathing him in. “Love you,” he whispers into the spot just below Steve’s ear. 

Steve shivers presses a kiss to Bucky’s shoulder. “Love you too.”

They stay wrapped up in each other, just holding and being held, until Bucky’s bladder has him shifting to get up. When he returns to the lounge, Steve’s got the yoga mats out, and Bucky flops down onto one of them. Steve snorts, coming to stand at the top of his own mat, stretching up. Bucky lays on his back and rolls through a few lazy floor poses, just working until he’s all relaxed and loose. 

At his side, Steve’s moving through more intense poses, really working up a sweat, and eventually Bucky just ends up laying on his front and watching him through half lidded eyes. They’re both inordinately strong, and the more they do yoga the more their muscles become used to holding strange positions. 

It makes for a truly breathtaking sight, when they can be bothered to really get into it. Bucky, currently sated and absolutely not about to move, lays there and waits until Steve begins going through some cool-down poses. Then he turns onto his side and stretches out in the sun patch that has slid over to embask them in golden light. 

Steve ends up doing the same, laying on his back as his breathing returns to normal. He smells of sweat and warmth, and it’s so inviting that Bucky turns sluggishly back over to press himself up against Steve’s front. Steve makes a pleased noise and lets Bucky use his bicep as a pillow. 

They lay there until the sun patch moves. 

“Lunch?” Bucky mumbles from where he’s gravitated to Steve’s chest.

Steve rumbles something that sounds affirmative, but Bucky knows that he’s always up for anything Bucky makes, so he gets up and stretches his arms above his head. His right shoulder pops and he lets out a hissing breath from between his teeth and rolls the joint before yawning and making his way to the kitchen. 

He moves quietly, letting Steve doze in what’s left of their sun patch. His nose is whistling as he breathes, which means he’s well on his way to being half asleep, despite Bucky moving. It makes Bucky smile fondly, before he’s turning to focus on pulling things from the cupboards and the fridge. 

He cuts fresh ginger, tumeric and garlic into fine, tiny pieces, the knife moving fluidly over the chopping board. He’s got a pot with coconut oil sizzling on the stovetop already, and the flavours make satisfying hissing sounds as they go in. He moves onto chopping up various vegetables and greens as the things in the pan brown up, releasing all their delicious smells into the room. 

Just as he’s adding the veggies and greens to the pot and pouring water over them, Steve rolls over in the lounge and stretches out. Bucky pauses from where he’s spooning miso paste into a bowl to be mixed with warm water and stares at him, his chest all warm and fuzzy. His face must look so dumb, but he can’t find it in him to care. 

Steve huffs out a breath and goes lax again, turning his head to squint at the kitchen. He’s sniffing the air, and a smile curls at his lips. Bucky just grins at him and turns to give the pot a stir. He’s just cutting the package of tofu open when Steve appears at the chopping board and offers his help. 

Bucky puts him in charge of frying the tofu, passing him sesame seeds and oil, as well as tamari. Steve cuts just as neatly as Bucky, and soon the tantalising smells of the tofu mix with the miso soup that is now simmering gently at the stove. Once the miso is mixed in with the veggies, and the buckwheat noodles are in to cook, Bucky moves over to press himself up against Steve’s back. 

Steve’s watching the tofu with a careful eye, flipping the squares individually to brown them on each side. Bucky wraps his hands around his waist, presses kisses to the back of his neck, and basks in the feeling he gets when Steve gives that little, warm, happy chuckle. 

“Did you want some tea with lunch?” Steve asks over the sizzling in the pan. 

Bucky hums, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to watch him cook. “Yes,” he says. “Wanna try that parsley tea Nat recommended?”

“Yeah, okay. What’s it good for again?” Steve prompts, tilting his head to brush his lips over Bucky’s temple. 

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut and he smiles, soft and content. “Settling a stomach after too much food,” he says with a little laugh. He and Steve often eat just that little bit too much; habit of not letting food go to waste and eating everything off their plate. They’re currently working on cooking  _ just  _ the right amount. 

“That’s right,” Steve says, gently turning some more tofu. 

It looks just about done, so Bucky presses another kiss to Steve’s cheek and moves away to put the kettle on and get some bowls out. He sets the table, puts the pot of miso soup in the centre. He’s pouring boiled water over dried parsley just as Steve places the pan of tofu on a mat beside the miso. 

They sit down to eat, Bucky bringing the steeping tea with him. 

“So do you think you’ll go back to the market, next week?” Steve asks as he serves them.

Bucky shrugs, the indecision crawling over his skin like nettle. “I don’t—I’d like to,” he settles on, spooning some tofu to sit on top of his bowl of soup. 

Steve hums, giving him an understanding look. The expression is gentle, and it wraps Bucky up in a warm blanket of comfort. “If you want company, let me know, yeah?” he suggests, and Bucky’s shoulders come down from around his ears. “But I think Shira’s suggestion has merit. If you wanna go alone, that’s good, too,” Steve goes on. 

Bucky pushes some noodles into his mouth, following them with his fork so he doesn’t get miso all over his chin. “We’ll see,” he murmurs once he swallows. 

Steve just nods, and his smile never fades, so Bucky gives him a bright-eyed look in return. They eat in companionable near-silence, Bucky asking about the parts of Steve’s day that’d he’d missed yesterday. Steve’s all too happy to tell him, talking about the gym with Sam and the coffee they’d gotten after. Tells him about how Sam’s doing, mentions that they were thinking about getting together for dinner at some point this week. 

Bucky nods along, happy to not think about going outside again for a little while. 

Once lunch is done, they sit and sip their tea, pleased to find that it  _ does  _ settle their straining stomachs. 

The week passes sluggishly. Steve isn’t called in for any missions, and Sam is set to come over for dinner on Friday. Bucky checks in with Shira on Thursday, and they don’t have  _ too  _ much to talk about, which is positive. Friday is spent preparing food while Steve goes for an extra long run. Bucky knows that Steve gets antsy sometimes, when he’s not doing anything, when he hasn’t been on a mission for a while. It’s something Steve’s working on with his own therapist. 

Bucky stress-bakes a mountain of cookies while Steve’s out, his skin itching as he thinks about the troubles Steve faces. Sometimes Bucky feels so  _ selfish;  _ Steve takes such good care of him, all on top of dealing with his own shit. And Bucky wants to be able to take care of  _ Steve,  _ to help him through his bad nights and bad days, to hold him when things get too much, to listen to him stutter through the details of a really bad mission while he near shakes apart. 

And Bucky ends up on the kitchen floor, arms wrapped around his knees and head pushed between them, breathing hard. His eyes are squeezed shut and his traitor of a brain fights against him as he tries to remember that he  _ does  _ do all of that. He and Steve support each other, they help each other, and they have their own therapists and other networks to take the load off each other. 

He whimpers into his knees as his brain tries to tell him that it’s not enough, that he doesn’t do enough for Steve, that all he does it  _ take take take.  _ He’s been through this with Shira a number of times, discussing the fact that Bucky sometimes feels that his and Steve’s relationship is unequal. He remembers that Steve had been horrified when Bucky had finally brought up the courage to talk to him about it. 

It’s that memory of Steve’s face going pale and so terribly sad as he reached out to touch Bucky, stopping himself like he wasn’t sure if he could. Bucky’d held himself stock-still, his brain telling him  _ you don’t deserve it, it feels so good when he touches you, doesn’t it, makes you feel like you’re worth something, but you don’t deserve that and you take it anyway, you never give anything back, how could you, you’re worthless and worthless people never have anything to give.  _

And he’d taken  _ days  _ to come down from that. Steve had tiptoed around him, confused and hurt as Bucky refused to tell him why he was pushing him away. He’d even refused to talk to Shira, despite him  _ knowing  _ that it would help. 

He remembers crying for a good hour when he’d finally broken, falling into Steve’s arms and sobbing, trying to explain what was going on in his brain but everything coming out incoherent. They’d sat down with Shira on emergency call, and she’d eventually extracted everything from Bucky, before providing an ear and quiet suggestions as Steve and Bucky had talked it out. 

Steve had told Bucky very vehemently  _ all  _ the things that Bucky does for him, all the different ways Bucky helps, and Steve had reminded him that he  _ loves  _ Bucky, and  _ don’t you remember what that means? _

But right now, Bucky can’t seem to drag himself out of his head because Steve is out there running himself to the bone because he has things he can’t deal with so well, too. And Bucky isn’t helping him, he’s sitting here shaking and burning cookies. 

And—fuck, he’s burning the cookies. 

He rushes to get them out of the oven, but it’s far too late, and that just sets Bucky off as he sinks back to the floor and cries, the smell of charcoal and smoke filling the kitchen. 

Steve finds him there sometime in the afternoon. The smell has by now gone out the window, but Bucky’s shame sits on the kitchen counter, black as coal. Bucky’s long since curled into a pitiful ball, just wallowing on the floor, sniffling and warring between telling his brain to shut up and leave him alone and just accepting everything it’s telling him. 

“Oh, Buck,” Steve says, voice cracking, and Bucky kinda wants to punch him. 

But then Steve sinks to the floor, too, and he wraps himself around Bucky’s body and holds him close until he warms up again. He’d gotten so cold on the kitchen tile, but he hadn’t bothered to move. He  _ deserves  _ to be cold. Only good people deserve to be warm. And that stupid, senseless thought sets him off again, but this time Steve’s here and he’s brushing Bucky’s hair back from his face and asking what’s wrong. 

“B-burnt the c-c- _ cookies,”  _ Bucky mutters miserably, and oh God he’s got snot on Steve’s shirt. 

But Steve’s covered in sweat and he’s all gross anyways, so maybe it doesn’t matter. “Bucky,” Steve starts, before he just lets out a sympathetic sigh and presses his nose into Bucky’s neck like he’s hiding. 

And then Bucky remembers why Steve had been gone so long, remembers the nightmares Steve had just kept waking up from last night, and he feels like a total selfish tool because he’s laid here seeking comfort from Steve when  _ Steve  _ needs comfort. He lets out a noise of despair and moves to try and hug Steve back. 

“S-sorry,” Bucky mumbles, gripping him tight. “Are y-you okay?” 

Steve just sighs, and the sound is so sad, and Bucky whimpers. They lay there on the kitchen floor until they feel like they can move to the couch, and at least there’s that. Steve’s still verbal, at least, and Bucky’s mostly able to talk, so they quietly tell each other what’s going on in each other’s heads. 

They’re exhausted and shaking afterwards, both wallowing in each other’s misery, but it’s all out in the open. Steve reassures Bucky that he’s never felt taken advantage of, and that right now he feels more cared for than he ever has without Bucky there. Bucky gently reminds Steve that he can talk to him when he needs, he doesn’t need to get out of the house and hide that fact that he’s also a mess from Bucky. 

They are both reminded that they are partners, and they’re  _ here  _ for each other. Nothing is one sided. 

Eventually, they get up and clean up Bucky’s failure of a cookie batch. There’s still some dough left, so they put those in the oven, and Steve hip-checks Bucky as he moves to set about roasting some lamb for dinner. Bucky gets out all the ingredients for peach pie, because today just needs a fucking peach pie. 

Sam comes over with beer and coleslaw, and he shakes his head at the excessive amount of food on the table but he sits down with them and he and Bucky catch up while Steve cleans up in the kitchen. The mood has significantly lifted since the afternoon, but Sam can still sense something's off. 

Of course, he doesn’t mention it, just gives Bucky a reassuring hug and envelopes Steve in one too before he can escape. Sam also knows that both Bucky and Steve have therapy sessions before, and Sam is their  _ friend,  _ so he offers the support he can by complimenting them on the food and sneakily insulting them by reminding them how shit their cooking was before he introduced them to the food channel.

They’re laughing halfway through the dinner as Sam retells a story about one of the more ridiculous missions he’s been on, and not everything is  _ okay,  _ but Bucky’s proud of the fact that he’s worked through this particular set-back so well. And Steve has, too! They  _ talked,  _ and that’s good, because everything is out in the open and they can help each other where they feel able. 

And tomorrow Bucky will have a lot to talk to Shira about, and she’ll give him advice and remind him of the methods to get out of his head when it gets like that. Steve will go to his therapy session and come back home and they’ll probably just hold each other and do nothing for the rest of the day and it’ll be  _ fine.  _

When the peach pie comes out, Sam makes a surprised but entirely pleased noise. “You’ve gotten really good at your presentation, Bucky,” he says, and Bucky  _ blushes.  _

“Thanks. I used the trick you taught me with the fork on the pastry,” he admits, ducking his head and giving the knife to Steve to cut the pie up. 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Does it taste as good as mine, yet?” he asks, his grin all cheeky.

Bucky scowls playfully, because  _ no,  _ it doesn’t. “Are you sure you aren’t making regular sacrifices to a baking god, or something?” he asks. 

Sam snorts, leaning over to take a piece. “Nope. Just  _ skill,  _ Bucky,” he teases, and Bucky sticks his tongue out at him. 

Sam squawks and bats a hand at Bucky’s shoulder, playfully giving him a shove. Bucky very gleefully doesn’t budge, and leans over to dig his fingers into Sam’s ribs, earning another yelp from him. It doesn’t take long before Sam’s pushing at his hands and yelling  _ uncle, uncle!  _ Bucky pulls away the moment he’s asked to stop and sits grinning. 

Sam rolls his eyes at him, and looks at Steve accusingly. “Your boyfriend is a fiend,” he says. 

Steve raises an eyebrow from where he’s got a mouthful of peach pie. He looks happy, though, so the exasperation is all an act. “He’s an angel. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is all Steve says, waving the accusation away as though it could never even be considered. 

Bucky feels himself flush, and he smiles down at his plate, pleased as punch. Sam scoffs, but the noise is teasing, and when Bucky chances a glance up at him all he reads is something akin to agreeance on Sam’s face. Which of course sets Bucky blushing all over again, and he buries himself in the pie. 

They eat, and Bucky is practically wriggling happily in his seat, unable to hold the contended joy inside him as he listens to the enthusiastic noises of approval around him. It’s true that Sam’s pie is better than his, but Sam’s been cooking it for  _ years,  _ and he learnt of his Ma. There’s always something magical about learning a recipe from a family member, and Bucky’s entirely okay with settling with great pie instead of magical. 

Once they’re all very much done, Bucky rises to start cleaning the table, and Sam moves to help him while Steve slinks off to get started on the mountain of dishes. They clean with the efficiency of practise, and once they’re done Sam bids them farewell and, since Bucky’s mentioned how he went outside the other day, Sam suggests that if Bucky ever feels up to it they come over to  _ Sam’s  _ for dinner. 

Bucky just nods, says he’ll think seriously about it, and Sam reassures him that it’s only if he feels like he can. And that if he wants to back out at any time, that’s okay too. 

So with Friday been and gone, the kitchen clean and bellies full, Bucky pulls Sam into a hug and thanks him quietly for his support. Sam just laughs and hugs him back, says he’s glad to have him as a friend. As they pull away, Bucky catches the absolutely  _ melting  _ look of delight on Steve’s face and ducks his head, grinning to himself. 

Sam and Steve say goodbye, coming together to a brief but heartfelt hug, and then Sam’s out the door and Steve’s wrapping Bucky up in a hug and just holding him. “So proud of you,” Steve murmurs into his ear.

Bucky smiles against his neck and hums, his chest feeling fuller than it’s ever been. He never wants to lose this feeling, and  _ that’s  _ what gives him the strength to go out to the market again on Monday. 

The weekend is as lazy as the entire week had been, but Steve spends some time out and about, running this errand or another. There’s a small incident in Manhattan that has him out of the house overnight, but it’s no Avengers mission so he’s home to eat pancakes on Monday morning and let Bucky patch him up. 

Bucky’s got him laid out on their ‘injured’ yoga mat, the one they use for when there’s a potential for blood to get on the carpet. Steve’s had a shower, and he’s been to medical, but Bucky’s been up  _ all night  _ worrying, and he waited impatiently through breakfast, so now Steve’s here. And he’s going to stay there until Bucky’s checked over every inch of his body like the paranoid ex-assassin he is. 

Steve protests for a while, saying he’s fine, but Bucky gets him on the mat anyway and pulls all his clothes off with the care of someone handling something breakable and precious. In Bucky’s mind, Steve is very much both of these. Steve doesn’t think he is, and sometimes it takes Bucky hours to get him to believe it, if only for a moment. 

“Buck, I don’t need—”

“Shush,” Bucky bites, lifting one of Steve’s legs to pull his boxers off, watching his face for  _ any _ signs of pain. “Let me do this,” he demands. 

And it’s almost criminal, to demand things of Steve. He gives so willingly, and Bucky never demands much, if ever, so he has all the power in the world to ask this of Steve. There’s no chance of him saying no. 

And Steve sighs, lays his head back like it’s some great chore, as Bucky finally gets all his clothes off and starts at his toes. He carefully brushes his lips over the tops of his feet, over the bones of his ankles and up his shins, stopping at his knees. They’re scraped to hell, and though they’ll be healed in a few hours, Bucky presses kisses around the wounds and whimpers in sympathy. 

Steve makes a small noise of protest, like he’s saying the wounds aren’t bad enough to warrant the attention, and Bucky reaches up to dig a finger into the sensitive parts of Steve’s hip and gives him a glare. Steve rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back again. But Bucky catches the softness in the lines of his face, the way his eyes have started glazing over. 

Smiling to himself, Bucky continues his gentle administrations, smoothing fingertips over the undersides of Steve’s knees just to see him shivering. Once he’s sure that the scrapes have gotten enough love, he moves up to Steve’s thighs, kissing them like he’s got all the time in the world. 

There are no wounds there, but Bucky treats them like they’re covered in the ghosts of the wounds Steve’s received. Bucky thinks about that sometimes; about how Steve is covered in the whispers of his pain, his sacrifice, his efforts to save a world that only partly deserves him. Steve bears no scars, but if his body let him keep the visual reminders of what Steve’s gone through? He would match the battlefield that is his head. 

“Bucky?”

Steve’s voice draws Bucky out of his head, and he glances up to see Steve’s eyes all soft and worried. Bucky shakes his head, shuffling up his body and flattening himself over Steve’s front, arms to his sides to hold himself up. Steve makes an inquiring noise, but Bucky just starts wandering his lips down Steve’s front. 

“Love you,” Bucky reminds him, and touches gently at the mess of mottled bruises that cover Steve’s side. 

Steve lets out a breath, turning his head away, and Bucky looks up sharply, a jolt of something damn painful going through him. He sits up from where he’d moved down to Steve’s stomach, knees on either side of Steve’s naked hips. 

“Hey,” he says, hands soft at Steve’s sides. 

Steve closes his eyes like he can’t bare to look up and see the love he deserves directed at him. Bucky wants to curl a lip, but he pushes the boiling anger away and calls compassion to aid him. He leans down to press a kiss to Steve’s belly button, smiles to himself as Steve’s stomach muscles jump. 

“I love you,” Bucky says again, firm. 

Steve huffs out a breath, and it sounds wet. “I love you too,” he manages, and Bucky’s heart fucking  _ hurts.  _

“Steve,” he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over Steve’s hipbones and kissing just above his belly button. “Steve, I love you. You’re so beautiful, and amazing, and you deserve the world,” he goes on, shifting further up. 

Steve’s got his eyes squeezed shut, and his lips are set in a thin line. “Bucky…”

“Steve?” Bucky prompts, kissing at Steve’s chest, tongue flicking out to taste because he can’t  _ help  _ himself. When Steve says nothing, Bucky goes on. “You’re doing so much to help people, you’re so good and so kind, and you’re so  _ patient,  _ God,” he breathes, shaking his head, because he really can’t believe it sometimes. 

Steve makes a noise like listening to it all hurts, and it sends another bolt of agony through Bucky’s chest. “Bucky, I don’t—”

“You  _ do,  _ Steve. You do,” Bucky interrupts, because he  _ will not  _ have Steve downplaying his worth. “I love you.”

Steve sighs, and Bucky’s watching his face so closely that he sees the tremble in his jaw. Bucky grits his teeth and swallows back past the lump in his throat. He comes up to kiss at Steve’s throat, still careful not to put his weight on him, and reaches up with his flesh hand to brush a hand through Steve’s hair, turning his head to face the ceiling at the same time. 

“I love you, and you’re everything to me. Don’t you know?” Bucky asks, lifting his head to press a kiss to Steve’s chin. 

Steve’s got his eyes open and he’s looking at the ceiling like he’s trying not to listen. The corners of his eyes are wet, though, and a muscle in his jaw jumps like he’s holding the tears back. Bucky reaches up to brush a thumb over his cheek and drops a kiss to Steve’s lips. Steve’s eyebrows furrow and he pouts, finally looking Bucky in the eye.

Bucky smiles down at him, gentle, and cups Steve’s cheek, watching him with adoration. “You’re sweet, and you’re sensitive, and you’re  _ human,  _ Steve. You’re so beautiful, and I wish you could see yourself like I do,” he murmurs. 

“You’re biased,” Steve croaks, and a tear finally slips out to roll down his temple. 

Bucky catches it with a finger before it can reach Steve’s hairline, and he brushes the drop over Steve’s lips. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

Steve frowns, like the question was the silliest thing he’s ever heard. “With my life,” he says honestly. 

Bucky closes his eyes, drinks that in, and tries not to let his mind tell him that Steve can’t possibly mean that. Steve trusts him, and so Bucky will trust Steve. “Then trust me enough to believe what I say is true. It’s not just my opinion,” he whispers, opening his eyes to stare down at Steve. 

Steve searches his eyes, his face unsure like it always is when they go through this, and eventually he sighs and relaxes into Bucky’s touch. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, pressing his lips together afterwards to stop the sob that threatens to follow. 

Bucky just sighs. “I love you,” he says again, and presses a kiss to Steve’s lips. 

This time, Steve kisses back, and it’s wet with tears but it’s so good, it’s gentle and passionate and Bucky can  _ feel  _ Steve’s insecurities fading, even just for a little bit. They keep the kiss soft, neither of them in any state to go any further, and Bucky rolls off of Steve’s body to lay at his side, a hand on his stomach and the other cupping Steve’s face still. 

When Steve pulls away, it’s to say; “I love you.”

And Bucky gives him a watery smile and a wet laugh and kisses him again. 

By the time eleven rolls around, Steve’s near fallen asleep, and Bucky’s honestly content to just lay here and let the day slip away. But as he lifts his head to check the time, Steve senses the movement and lets out a breath. “You gonna go to the market?” he asks. 

Bucky bites at his lip, unsure. He made a promise to himself, to Steve and to Shira, but he really doesn’t want to leave Steve alone right now. “I can go tomorrow,” he says, fingertips trailing down Steve’s side. 

“Don’t put it off on my account,” Steve protests, and Bucky’s quietly furious that Steve still doesn’t see is own worth. 

“I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone right now,” Bucky tells him honestly. 

Steve’s silent for a moment, before he sighs, silently agreeing that that’s for the best. “Okay,” he whispers. “I could...I could go with you?” he suggests. 

Bucky lifts his head to look at him, reads the reluctance there, and shakes his head. “I’ll go tomorrow,” he promises, and the words ring with finality, so Steve just sighs again and closes his eyes. 

“Alright,” he says, voice a little wobbly, and Bucky presses a kiss to his cheek. 

“Hey, how many times have you put things off or cancelled plans when I wasn’t feeling alright?” he asks rhetorically. “Let me love you, Steve. That means let me  _ care  _ for you, let me be there for you, let me support you when you can’t. Even when you  _ can.”  _

Steve lets out a shuddery breath, and instead of looking away, he buries his face in Bucky’s neck, rolling onto his side to wrap an arm over Bucky’s shoulders. “Alright,” he mumbles again, but with more confidence this time and Bucky  _ beams.  _

And there’s that feeling again, his chest all full, and he holds it close. He never wants to let it go. 

He spares a brief thought for Vera, the stallholder who they buy eggs from, but he thinks that they would understand. He’ll just have make sure he definitely goes tomorrow. 

They lay there until Steve gets too cold, naked as he is, and Bucky helps him up and guides him to the couch. He sits him down and bundles him up in blankets and goes about finishing off the pancake batter. He and Steve eat together, and then they both doze against each other without doing the dishes. They’re both exhausted, and Bucky’s proud of them both for eating before they passed out. 

The afternoon passes in a haze. Steve flips open a sketchbook at some point, having woken up before Bucky, and Bucky blinks open his eyes to find Steve’s eyes flickering between him and the page. It warms his heart to see Steve drawing; it’d taken him a long time to get back into it. Now, seeing his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth and his brow furrowed in concentration, Bucky finds a slow smile stretching over his face. 

When Steve looks up again, his frown melts away and he smiles in return, setting the sketchbook down so he can lean over and press his lips to Bucky’s. Bucky hums in approval, kissing him back slow and languid. They neck on the couch, no rush, no urgency. They’re both warm and the afternoon has slipped into evening, the dusk-glow of the sun turning the room golden. 

They’re under the same pile of blankets, and Bucky lets out a soft sigh when he feels Steve’s hand trailing up his inner thigh. “Steve,” he murmurs, and smiles against Steve’s lips. 

Drowsy as he is, Bucky just lays back and pulls Steve on top of him, tilting his head back to give him access. Steve kisses up his neck, wet and slow, even as he sneaks a hand into Bucky’s pants, palming him. Bucky hums, pushing his hips up into the touch, and twines his fingers with Steve’s hair, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Not fair,” Steve rasps against his neck. “You’re clothed and I’m naked.”

Bucky huffs a laugh, scraping his nails over Steve’s scalp. “Want my clothes off, baby?” he asks, even as he brings his knees up to case Steve in between them. 

Steve shifts so his hips are hovering just over Bucky’s and he can still move his hand between them. “Please?” he whispers, and Bucky shivers at the hot breath that blows over a wet patch on his neck after. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees, before he’s shuffling to pull his shirt off. 

Steve works at his pants, sitting up to pull them off, and then he sits there, looking down at Bucky with dark eyes. Bucky lays before him, smiles like it’s all innocent, and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Steve hums, running his palms up Bucky’s shins, and he pushes his legs back until he’s got Bucky’s legs hooked over his shoulders. 

Bucky’s breathing has picked up, and he shudders out a sigh as Steve pushes his hard dick against Bucky’s ass. “You wanna get inside me, baby?” he asks, wriggling his hips down until he’s pressed up against Steve. 

Steve nods, hair falling over his forehead, and from this angle Bucky gets the brief feeling that he’s gazing up at an angel. Steve gives him a look, like he can read him mind, before he’s shaking his head and leaning over Bucky to capture his lips. 

Bucky smiles into the kiss, before Steve gets his hand on him again and his lips fall open in a gasp. Steve swallows any sound Bucky could have made, licking into Bucky’s mouth and rolling his balls between his fingers. Bucky whines, kissing back just as greedy, and ruts his hips up into Steve’s hand. 

“Where’s the nearest lube?” Steve asks, voice low and rough, and Bucky shivers. 

“Coffee table,” Bucky says honestly, blushing despite himself. He’d hid some there last week. 

Steve grins, half predator and half fond, before he pulls away and leans over to grab the bottle from the drawer. When he comes back he’s already got the lid open, and Bucky wriggles eagerly, pushing his hips up like it’ll make Steve get in him faster. Steve shakes his head like Bucky is impossible, but he’s smiling, all fond. 

“How many fingers?” Steve asks, trailing a hand over Bucky’s inner thigh and pressing a thumb to his hole. 

Bucky shivers, legs falling wide open. “Three,” he answers, because sometimes he likes it rough and asks for two, but he feels soft today. “Go slow,” he adds, because he doesn’t want this to be over any time soon. They have all the time in the world, as far as he’s concerned. 

Steve’s eyes, though dark, are soft as he smiles down at Bucky. “Yeah, alright, sweetheart,” he says, and Bucky preens at the pet name. 

Steve goes so slow it would be torturous, if not for the headspace Bucky’s in. Steve has him panting and gasping twenty minute later, and he’s only got his second finger in. Bucky’s hips are littered with red and purple marks, and Steve’s lips are slick and bright like roses. Bucky’s alternating between staring up at him with adoration and throwing his head back with his eyes shut. 

Every now and then Steve will drop a kiss to the head of Bucky’s dick and collect the precome there, rubbing his lips together like he’s wearing it as he would lipgloss. It drives Bucky mad every single time, has him moaning and whimpering, pushing his hips up to seek more touch where he  _ needs  _ it and then grinding down to push Steve’s fingers deeper inside him. 

Steve keeps up a regular dialogue of praises and cooing, and Bucky loses himself in the words, his fuzzy brain letting him believe it all to be true. Steve seems to sense this, and he says things that would sound so utterly ridiculous if not coming from him. 

“I’m the luckiest guy in the world, Buck, treat me so well, take care of me when I come home from work, cook the best meals for me, what more could a guy want? And, God, you’re so  _ sweet,  _ honey, like sugar. I could just eat you up. Drive me crazy. Clever, too, huh? So smart you read my damn mind sometimes. Always know what I need,” Steve goes on, stopping between sentences to kiss and suck at Bucky’s skin. 

Bucky’s lost to it, moaning whenever Steve crooks his fingers just right, whining when he back off, whimpering when he spends too long making a mark with his mouth. “Be good for you, Steve, please, gimme another,” he pleads, already on edge as it is. 

Steve hums like he’s just gonna  _ consider  _ it, but then he’s dropping his head to suck the head of Bucky’s dick between his lips even as he gently pushes a third finger in. Bucky shouts, hips thrusting up off the couch without his say-so. The movement pushes his dick further into Steve’s mouth, but he just takes it, eyes fluttering shut. 

Bucky moans at the sight and the feeling, dropping his head back and letting out a soft whine. Steve chuckles around his dick, and Bucky sees fucking stars. Steve slowly removes his mouth, kisses Bucky’s hip and returns his focus to taking Bucky apart with his fingers. 

By the time Steve deems him ready, every inch of Bucky’s body is lax and tense all at the same time. All he wants is Steve in him, and yet he doesn’t want this feeling to stop. He’s got one leg thrown over the back of the couch, the other hooked over Steve’s shoulder still. His arms are gripping the arm of the couch, and he thinks he’s shaking his head.

“Hey, hey Buck, c’mere sweetheart, look at me?” Steve asks, free hand running up Bucky’s side. 

Bucky arches into the touch, a small shiver rolling through him, but he opens his eyes and gives Steve a wrecked look. Steve gazes down at him, smiling fondly, and presses the pads of his fingers against Bucky’s prostate. Bucky moans, hips pressing down against the feeling, and finally,  _ finally,  _ Steve leans back over him to kiss and lick at his mouth. 

Bucky takes it, trying to kiss back, but he’s too far gone to do much but lay there as Steve twists his fingers and owns his lips. Bucky’s dick is brushing the hardness of Steve’s abs, and he ruts up, seeking the friction. Steve laughs against his mouth, and Bucky whines, trying to convey the  _ now, now, please,  _ that’s on loop in his mind. 

“Yeah, sweetheart. Alright,” Steve murmurs, and his voice sounds about as wrecked as Bucky feels. 

Bucky whimpers as Steve moves back down his body and removes his fingers. Steve hushes him, and the sound is reassuring. Bucky knows he’s gonna get what he needs. It takes only a moment for Steve to get his dripping dick slicked up, and then he’s pushing into Bucky’s hole, going so,  _ so  _ slow that Bucky’s clenching around him, trying to take him in. 

As Steve bottoms out, he lets out a rough moan and hangs his head, like he’s taking a moment to pray. Bucky stares up at him, panting hard and desperate, but the image of Steve taken apart just by getting his dick in Bucky has his mind short circuiting. 

“Fuck, Bucky,” Steve breathes, and then he’s moving. 

Bucky’s head falls back again and he lets out soft groans and pleased whimpers as Steve fucks into him. “So good,” he tells Steve, letting go of the couch arm to trail a hand down his own chest. 

Steve just grunts and pulls Bucky’s legs further over his shoulders, which has Steve’s hips flush against Bucky’s ass. The moment Bucky gets his hand on his own dick, whining at the feeling of it getting some much-needed attention, Steve growls and  _ really  _ starts giving it to him. Bucky’s reduced to letting slip obscene  _ uh, uh, uhs,  _ and Steve’s panting above him, the slick sound of skin slapping against skin driving them both wild. 

Bucky loses himself to it, hips rocking in an attempt to meet Steve’s thrusts, and his spare hand comes up to grip at Steve’s wrist where Steve’s got his hand on Bucky’s thighs. Steve groans, and Bucky’s jacking himself off with desperation, and neither of them are gonna last long. 

“Steve,  _ Steve,  _ please, m’gonna come,” Bucky gasps, fingernails digging into Steve’s wrist without his say-so. 

Steve, impossibly, just grins down at him and doubles his efforts. Bucky’s head falls back again and his mouth is wide open as he lets out a filthy moan, and then Steve’s grabbing at his hips and lifting them, getting better leverage and just  _ letting go.  _ Bucky near screams, and his chest is  _ heaving,  _ and he’s—fuck, he’s  _ coming,  _ and he’s whining and gasping and clenching down and pleading  _ Steve Steve Steve.  _

Steve doesn’t take a moment longer to follow, bending in half over Bucky’s body as he drives deep and moans, hips moving in rough circles as he milks himself. Bucky lets go of his dick and slumps back, stars swirling in his vision and whole body falling slack. Steve stops moving, and Bucky becomes aware of him mouthing at his chest. 

“Smug punk,” Bucky slurs, because he can  _ feel  _ the smile that Steve’s wearing. 

Steve laughs, and presses a kiss to one of Bucky’s nipples. “Think m’allowed to be,” he murmurs, voice just as wrecked. “Love you.”

Bucky sighs, content and happy, and brings up a hand to cup the back of Steve’s neck. “Love you too.”

They clean up when everything just gets too sticky, and Steve hustles them both into the shower. As the cheap, scentless soap is washed from Bucky’s body, he’s reminded of the market he’s going to tomorrow and the soap he’s maybe perhaps possibly gonna buy. The thought fills him with both apprehension and excitement. 

They get out of the shower and Steve dries Bucky off, lavishing him with the sort of attention you’d give to a deity. Bucky grumbles a bit, but he’s exhausted and sated and happiness thrums under his skin, so he gives little complaint. They’re both hungry, after skipping lunch and the round they’ve just gone, so Bucky slumps on a stool at the counter and sleepily watches Steve put together some toast and eggs. 

“Hey, thank you for, uh, this morning,” Steve murmurs when he sets a plate in front of Bucky. 

Bucky blinks, lifting himself off the counter and rubbing at one eye. “Of course. Steve you don’t—I  _ like  _ doing it. I like takin’ care of you,” he tells him, frowning a little. 

“Yeah, well, thank you anyway. I needed it, and you made me feel better, y’know?” Steve mumbles, sitting down beside him. 

Bucky’s pretty sure he’s smiling like a dope when he places a hand on Steve’s thigh. “Hey,” he murmurs. Steve looks up at him, his face downturned, mouth twisted up, and Bucky cups his cheek and reels him in for a kiss. “I love you,” he tells him, and Steve smiles against his lips. “You’re allowed to feel better,” Bucky reminds him. 

Steve just sighs, but he’s still smiling, so Bucky’s confident that he’s at least achieved something worthwhile today. He presses another kiss to Steve’s smiling lips and then they turn to devour their dinner. 

When all the dishes are done and teeth are clean, they crawl into bed and pull each other in close, murmuring sweet things until one of them falls asleep, the other following close behind.


	3. to remind our restless souls (of the beauty of being here at all)

Of course, despite such a slow and soft day, there were bumps in the already rocky road.

Now, Bucky doesn’t usually dream all that much. Thankfully, he’s actually too tired for his brain to conjure up the effort to process things, so he gets a good amount of sleep in each night. But that means that when he _does_ dream, his brain tries to make up for lost time or some shit, because he wakes screaming every damn time.

Tonight is no different. The sheets are soaked through and his throat is raw from screaming, and there are hands on his shoulders, _holding him down,_ and he’s fighting back, throwing blind fists and yelling, threatening, _begging._ The darkness of the room is choking, and he can’t tell if the breathlessness he’s experiencing is all in his head or if it’s actually real.

In his confusion, he doesn’t recognize Steve trying to calm him down, doesn’t even recognise Steve's _voice_ telling him he’s _okay, you’re safe Buck, you’re home, c’mon Buck come back to me._ Bucky just thrashes, still wrapped in the throes of his nightmare, lightning crashing through his brain and unzipping it, leaving his innards and his mind flayed and spilling out over the bedsheets.

He’s trying to scramble away, but he’s uncoordinated, and he can’t even really remember what he was dreaming about, he’s just left with the feelings of fear and desperation and _agony._ The need to get far, far away and the knowledge that he _can’t._ He’ll never get away. He’s trapped, both physically and in his own damn _mind._ Nowhere is safe.

And yet, there is that voice, so soft and gentle despite the panic and sadness threaded through it. It tells him that he _is_ safe, that he’s _home,_ whatever that means.

He wants to believe it. He never wants that voice to stop talking, and yet all he wants is for it to _shut up,_ because it’s _lying._ Nothing that it’s saying could ever be true. So he fights, and at some point a fist connects with something and the hands on his shoulders are torn away and he’s rolling, scrambling, gasping and his feet hit the floor and— 

And the floor is carpeted. That’s not right? That’s not—his toes curl into the carpet, and he stands stock-still, vision finally taking in what lays in the darkness. There are curtains hanging down the wall in front of him, a bedside table in his periphery. The walls are painted, and for some reason he knows the colour is cream, and that it has a name, but he can never remember it, despite Steve always knowing the answer when he asks.

Oh. _Oh._

He sucks in a breath, but it catches in his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, hands balling into fists, and—and _fuck,_ he hit _Steve._ He can’t bear to turn around, so he stands there shaking and wishes it all away. Wishes it— _all_ of it—had never happened.

“Bucky,” comes from behind him, soft and warm, and Bucky wants to run away because he doesn’t _deserve_ to hear that voice directed at him.

A sob is torn from his chest, and he presses his knuckles to his mouth and bites down on them to stifle any further noises. His shoulders cave forwards and he fights to urge to sink to the floor and rock until he passes out and hopefully never wakes up again. He wants that—wants to not exist, so he doesn’t ever have to feel this again, despite the fact that he _deserves_ it.

But he can’t have it. It would be too easy, a nice ending for someone like him. He deserves the torture.

“Bucky, hey, sweetheart, can you look at me?”

Bucky swallows down a whimper, and his knees are quivering. He doesn’t want—no, he _wants,_ but he doesn’t _deserve_ to turn around and see Steve sitting up in bed, sheets pooled around his hips, bruise shining on his face already and expression kind and understanding. Bucky _does not_ deserve for Steve to pull him in and hold him until he doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Bucky, please? I just wanna see your face, sweetheart. For me?”

Bucky sucks in a breath and hangs his head, drawing his arms up to wrap around his middle like he can tuck all the ugly parts back inside him where Steve never has to look at them. But Steve is _asking_ to see the ugliness that Bucky carries with him wherever he goes, and Bucky knows he’s only hurting Steve more right now, so he turns. Slowly. Doesn’t dare look up from the floor.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve sighs, and Bucky wants to hide. “Bucky, c’mere?”

Bucky shakes his head. No way should Steve touch him right now; not when he’s feeling so dirty and _bad._ He should go sleep on the couch, at the very least, leave Steve to get some peaceful rest and be away from him.

“Bucky, hey, whatever you’re thinking right now, your brain’s lying to you, okay? I want to come back to me, yeah? Wanna hold you until you feel a little better,” Steve murmurs, and he’s edging closer to Bucky, and Bucky chances a glance at him through his eyelashes.

Steve’s face is exactly as he imagined it, but there’s no bruise. He just looks really, really sad. Like a puppy. Like he wants to hold Bucky just like he said, and Bucky can’t fucking _fathom_ that, so he just shakes his head and pushes his bottom lip out, a whimper slipping from him. He’s looking back down at the ground so he doesn’t have to see what Steve’s face does in reaction to the noise.

“Bucky, sweetheart, you didn’t do anything wrong, honey. You had a nightmare, yeah? I get those too, remember?” Steve goes on, and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, hands just a breath away from touching Bucky.

Bucky wants to take a step back, but he holds still, torturing himself with the tantalising knowledge of how good he’d feel, how _soft_ and _happy,_ if he just let Steve hold him. But he doesn’t—he doesn’t _deserve—_

“Bucky, please?” Steve asks, and it’s in his sweetest voice, and Bucky can’t help but _crumple._

He folds into Steve’s arms, letting out a sob and wrapping his limbs around Steve, pushing him back onto the bed. Steve falls with an _oof,_ but he’s already got his arms around Bucky’s torso and he’s holding him so close Bucky actually spares a thought for his ribs. But then the worry is long gone and he’s burying his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and falling to pieces.

Steve’s rocking gently, murmuring comforting things in his ear, petting at his hair. Bucky is torn in half; to let himself give in to what Steve’s saying, that he’s good and kind and soft, or to listen to himself, that he is horrible and evil and a murderer? The war inside him, ever raging, only has him sobbing harder.

This time around, Steve’s voice wins out, and Bucky finds himself going limp in his arms. Steve makes a sad, pleased noise and somehow tightens his hold. Bucky chokes, the air being squeezed out of him, and Steve hurries to loosen his arms. Bucky slides off his body and burrows into the blankets, pulling Steve with him.

He’s still crying, but they’ve been through this so many times that Steve knows to just follow along with him until he can talk again. Steve pulls the blankets over their heads and smooths a hand down Bucky’s side, like he can wipe away all and any of Bucky’s hurts. He can’t, though, and Bucky lays shaking beside him, sniffling when his body gives up on the all-out crying.

“Where’s your mind?” Steve asks, once neither of them has talked in over an hour.

Bucky grunts, turning his head into the mattress and sighing. Steve’s drawing soothing shapes with his fingertips at Bucky’s back and Bucky never wants him to stop. “M’sorry,” Bucky mumbles into the sheets.

Steve can’t possibly have understood him, but he knows exactly what Bucky’s said. Steve sighs, but it’s not a disappointed sigh, it’s a sad one. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. You know that, Buck, even if your mind doesn’t. You had a nightmare. I grabbed you, you lashed out, panicked. It _happens,_ Buck,” he murmurs, and Bucky drifts in the sugar-sweetness of the words. “And you let me take care of you,” Steve goes on. “Let me hold you, let me tell you how good you are. I’m so proud you didn’t run.”

Bucky spares a thought for how messed up it is that _that’s_ a best-case scenario, but then he shoves the thought away and turns his head so Steve will understand him. “Thank you,” he mutters.

Steve sighs again, and presses a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. “I could quote you from yesterday, but I’ll just tell you I love you.”

And, yeah, okay. Bucky’s a hypocrite. He sighs right back and kisses Steve’s chest, snuggling further into his embrace like he can hide. “Love you too,” he mumbles.

Steve hums, and Bucky wonders if you can love someone so much it becomes the only thing you know.

Morning does not bring the smell of coffee. Instead, it is heady with the feeling of being safe and warm, and the scent that is uniquely Steve fills Bucky’s senses. Bucky wakes slowly, finds himself buried in Steve’s embrace, his arms still wrapped around him. Steve’s awake, but he doesn’t move. Bucky sucks in a breath, like he can gather up the feeling that is reserved for mornings like this and hold it in his chest forever.

But he has to exhale at some point, and when he does Steve’s arms shift and he finds himself blinking blearily up at blue, blue eyes. He smiles, and Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he returns it. “Morning,” he murmurs, and Bucky sighs happily.

“Morning,” he replies, voice thick with sleep.

Steve’s searching his face, and Bucky stays open, letting himself be read. Steve must finds what he’s looking for, because his expression softens even more and he bends his neck to kiss Bucky’s forehead. “Wanna lay in bed while I make coffee?” he asks quietly.

Bucky hums, tightening his grip on Steve a little. “Don’t move yet,” he demands, pouting a little and snuggling closer.

Steve huffs out a small laugh, but he obeys like it was his plan all along. “Okay,” he agrees, and they lay in the ocean of warmth and softness that sways around them like the tide.

It takes another hour, but eventually Bucky finds it in himself to want to get up. He’s still shaky from last night, but the determination he feels is real and solid and he is going to the market today. Yes. Definitely. Absolutely.

He tells himself that over and over as Steve makes them coffee in the kitchen while he fries bacon and manages to nearly burn eggs. He’s distracted, but Steve must sense that, because he ducks in to save the eggs just in time. Bucky kisses his cheek in thanks and heads to the table to set up the plates and cutlery.

By the time they’re finished eating, Bucky’s feeling jittery and on edge. He can’t see the door from the dining table, but it’s like he can _sense_ it. It’s like it’s staring at him, taunting him. Steve can tell he’s nervous, and he does the washing up quickly while Bucky spends a whole ten minutes tying his shoes.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Steve asks gently, sitting down on the couch beside him.

Bucky shakes his head, biting at his lip. “No, I c-can go alone,” he says, determined to do so. He’s done it once; he can do it again, no matter his apprehension and his nervous damn stutter. 

“Okay,” Steve relents. “Can I text you while you’re there, or would you prefer I didn’t?”

Bucky gives him a grateful look. “You can text me,” he murmurs, finally finishing with his laces and sitting back, leaning heavily on Steve.

Steve obligingly wraps an arm around him, squeezing his shoulder. “I believe in you,” he says, all quiet like it’s a secret.

Bucky smiles, ducking his head so Steve can’t see the blush that sweeps across his face. “Did you want anything?” he asks, like this is a normal occurrence, like Bucky’s the type of partner to head out to the market and stock up on their weekly groceries. Like he usually asks Steve if he wants anything extra than what’s on their list.

It’s a sham. Bucky’s list consists of two things; eggs from Vera’s stall and soap maybe possibly for himself.

“I’m good. I’ll have lunch ready by the time you get home, yeah?” Steve says, ducking his head as well when Bucky doesn’t look up.

Bucky huffs and nods, and okay. He’s stalling again. He sits up and Steve obligingly drops his arm. Bucky shuffles to the edge of the couch, hesitating, feeling ridiculous. He can _do_ this. Steve rubs a hand up his back, and Bucky relaxes into the touch, not at all surprised to realise how tense he’d been.

“Hey. You can do this, okay? And you don’t even need me to tell you that; you know,” Steve murmurs.

Bucky sighs. Steve usually right, and right now both he _and_ Bucky think that Bucky can do this. There’s nothing holding him back. So he gathers up all his courage and stands, reaching to grab his backpack and sling it over his shoulder. He walks with shaky legs around the couch, bending down to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek.

“Be back soon,” he says.

Steve huffs a kind laugh and shoos him away, and Bucky _goes._ He knows that Steve’s watching him the whole way, but he can’t look back, and then he’s shutting the door behind him and he doesn’t stall this time, he just marches like he’s got a gun to head all the way to the market.

He knows his way through all the stalls this time, and beelines for Vera’s. They’re serving a customer when he gets there, so he hovers awkwardly, steadying his breathing. The world isn’t closing in around him. No one is looking at him. The apartment is waiting for him to return with eggs and maybe soap.

With shaky, gloved hands, he pulls out his phone while he waits so he doesn’t descend into a bad train of thought. There’s a text from Steve, and he finds himself smiling down at the screen.

**From: Peach Pie Thief;** _Hey, Buck! You at the market yet? Tell Vera I said hi!_

Bucky’s smile has gone from fond to dopey. He clears his throat and glances around to make sure no one caught the Winter Soldier looking like a lovesick puppy, before tapping out a reply.

**To: Peach Pie Thief;** _at market, yeah. gonna get eggs now i’ll tell vera but i’m pretty sure you know they’ll never let it go once they figure out we’re together xx_

And then the person Vera was serving wanders away, a smile on their face, and Bucky’s panicking and shoving his phone away. He steps forwards and is absolutely blinded by the grin Vera gives him.

“You came back! Oh, I was worried about you yesterday, but I’m glad you made it,” they say, and Bucky feels himself relaxing instead of panicking.

Actually, so far, this whole experience is _a lot_ better than the last one, and he even finds himself smiling bashfully at the ground. He looks up when he remembers his manners, and nods his head. “Sorry I worried you,” he starts, and Vera’s eyes positively light up at the fact that he’s talking. “My, uh, boyfriend. He had a bad day yesterday, so I stayed home to take care of him,” he explains, chest absentmindedly puffing up with pride at the fact that he’s managing to hold a real-person conversation outside with a stranger.

Vera’s soft, mismatched eyes take on a touch of worry. “Oh, no. Is Steve alright now, though?” they ask, and Bucky has to do a double-take. Vera must read the question on his face, because they chuckle. “Oh, Bucky, hon, you didn’t think I was oblivious, did you? I know who you are. Steve talks about you _all_ the time.”

And Bucky’s taking a moment, he’s processing, because—because he’d thought that maybe he was anonymous here, that he was _safe_ from being what the public know him as, and there’s a _reason_ why he doesn’t go outside much, he knows what people think of him, knows that they know the _truth,_ and _fuck,_ who else knows? Is someone lining up a shot right now, gonna give him what he deserves?

“Bucky?”

Bucky blinks, and his phone vibrates in his pocket, and Vera’s looking at him with kindness and his throat clogs up because Vera knows who he _is_ and they’re being nice anyway. They’re treating him like he’s human. Like—like they know him as Steve’s boyfriend, instead of the Winter Soldier. And—wait, Steve’s told Vera about him?

He ducks his head and clears his throat. “Sorry, I—I didn’t know you knew,” he says quietly.

Vera sighs, and Bucky glances up briefly to see them with a fond smile on their face. “It’s alright, hon. Come and buy your eggs, now, I’ve had them put aside for you.”

Bucky presses his lips together, but then realises that Vera would probably like to see him smiling, so he lets his lips curl up as he steps forwards. Vera winks at him, and his smile grows into a tentative grin. Vera waves their finger as though they’re saying _there we go,_ and Bucky is _blushing._

“Here you are,” Vera says, holding a carton of eggs out.

Bucky scrambles to get the cash, and holds it out with that smile lingering on his face. “Steve says hi,” he relays, remembering just in time.

Vera’s eyes twinkle as they grin, and Bucky finds himself relaxing again, panic forgotten. “Tell him the same in return. I hope I see him here with you one day, but you take your time, alright?” Vera tells him.

Bucky nods, taking the eggs gratefully. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I’ll tell him.”

Vera wiggles their fingers in farewell as he takes a step away from the stall. “Enjoy your day, hon,” they say with that cheery grin, and Bucky finds himself beaming in return.

“You too!” he wishes, and Vera winks again, and then he’s melding with the foot traffic and feeling like he’s on top of the _world._

The feeling stays, and the cradles it close because it’s _precious_ and he’s never wants to let it go. He’s feeling so good he ends up wandering all the way to the soap stall without a single bad thought. As he stands in front of it, though, he finds himself worried all over again.

He checks his phone before he the stallholder can notice him like he did last time, and finds himself relaxing as he smiles down at Steve’s reply.

**From: Peach Pie Thief;** _Uh. They may already know?_

**To: Peach Pie Thief;** _yeah thanks for the warning on that one, champ. heard u were talkin about me? xx_

Bucky shakes his head and pockets his phone, the smile on his face slipping away when he finds himself looking at the soaps again. He takes a slow, shaky breath and steels himself. On one hand, this is just _soap._ He has faced _so much_ worse than this. One the other, it’s so much more than soap. It’s a step towards admitting that he’s allowed things like this, that he’s allowed to admit that the murders possibly weren’t entirely his fault, that maybe it’s okay for him to want these things, that just because he was brainwashed and tortured and made to do horrible things for seventy years doesn’t mean that he can’t have nice things.

He sucks in another breath, realises his heart rate has picking the fuck up, and he closes his eyes to center himself. He’s fine. He’s okay. He’s not—he’s not back there, not back with HYDRA. He’s _here._

Standing in front of the soap stall probably looking like a loon.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he gets it out so fast he nearly cracks the screen.

**From: Peach Pie Thief;** _Yeah, yeah. I tell Vera all about your stinky feet and how you leave blankets everywhere and that you never wake up before nine in the morning. They know ALL about you. (Sorry for not warning you. You all good?)_

**To: Peach Pie Thief;** _i’m glad they had to hear about my amazing boyfriend qualities from my loving, sappy, puppy-eyed boyfriend (it’s all good, i was just surprised. got eggs! vera says hi!) xx_

**From: Peach Pie Thief;** _< 3_

Bucky huffs out a laugh and stares at the message for longer than necessary, before tucking the phone away again and looking back at the soap stall. It stares back at him, challenging. And he’s not—this is a realistic thing, he realises. He could just walk over and pick up the yellow soap and hand over the money and all he has to to then is walk home and he’ll have bought something for himself.

So he does.

With a strike of courage, he’s gathering himself and taking a deep breath and then he’s walking over. The stallholder looks up, and Bucky watches his eyes flicker with recognition, but the man does nothing but smile and dip his head in greeting.

“Hey! Back again, huh? Eggs from Vera?” the man asks, all gentle, harmless charm and an aura that has Bucky relaxing into conversation.

Bucky clears his throat, gives a short nod. “Yes, uh, I got eggs,” he manages, and mentally pats himself on the back instead of berating himself for such a bumbling answer.

The stallholder grins, and glances down at the array of soaps, a funny smile on his face, like he knows a secret. “Good for you, my friend,” he says, and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat, because— _friend._ Not murderer, not traitor, not disgrace. Friend.

“Um. I, uh, came back for—the soap,” he bites out bit by bit, words clunky and a little shaky, but he’s saying it, okay? He’s telling the stallholder that he wants the soap, that he’s not gonna run this time.

And the man _beams._ It’s refreshing, to be surrounded by such genuinely enthusiastically happy people. And, yeah, he’s not actually with anyone ever who’s _not_ that—the only people he communicates with are Steve, Nat, Sam and Shira—but these people are _strangers._ And they’re kind and understanding. It makes his heart swell and his chin lift and his shoulders roll back. He’s breathing easier, feeling a little lighter, a little more confident in himself. All because of a few strangers smiles.

“Yeah? Wow, good on you! That’s real cool,” the man says, reaching out to pick up the yellow soap. “This one, yeah? You ran off pretty quick last time, had me wondering if I’d said something wrong.”

Bucky shakes his head, horrified at the idea. “No—no. I, uh, I’m not—” but he can’t get the words out, and the stallholders whole demeanor softens.

“Hey, sorry. I shouldn’t’ve brought it up. It’s just, I _was_ worried, you know? But I’m real glad you came back, and I think it’s really awesome that you’re gonna buy this soap, because I can tell you really liked it, yeah?” the man reassures him, and Bucky’s relaxing again all without meaning to.

Bucky ducks his head, flushing at the ground, but he’s got a silly little smile on his face that he can’t _really_ hide. “Yeah,” he agrees, looking back up.

The man has a _really_ nice smile. “Alright then. Tell you what, since you’ve done so well to come back even in the face of something that’s scared you, I’ll give you the soap, okay?” he says.

Bucky blinks, and then he’s frowning, because—no, he couldn’t possibly take the offer. Buying soap for himself is _one_ thing, but _taking_ it? No, he doesn’t—he can’t—he doesn’t _deserve—_

“Hey, woah, c’mon, my friend,” the stallholders saying, and Bucky refocuses on him and realises his breathings picked up and he’s shaking a little. At the gentle, worried look on the man’s face, Bucky takes a deep breath and shakes his head slowly.

“I can’t—can’t take that,” he breathes, still frowning.

The man just tilts his head to one side, considering, warm brown eyes searching Bucky’s face. Then he sticks out the hand that isn’t holding the soap. “C’mere?” he asks. Bucky swallows and reaches out with a gloved hand, confused. “I’m Timu,” the man says.

Bucky shakes his hand, still lost, but he nods. “Bucky,” he replies.

The man—Timu—just nods, like he already knew. He probably did. “Alright, Bucky, lovely to meet you. Now, we’re friends, yeah?” he asks.

Bucky bites at his lip, still trying to work out what’s going on, but he gives a slow nod as he takes his hand back. He supposes they are? “Yes?” he says, because he’s unsure, but he doesn’t want to offend someone who’s been so kind to him.

Timu’s grinning again. “Sweet. So, we’re friends, and I’d like to give this soap to you as a gift, cause friends give each other gifts, right?” and Bucky’s opening his mouth to protest, but Timu talks over him. “And if you’re _really_ bothered, maybe come back when it’s finished and buy another, yeah? Maybe consider buying someone _else_ a soap, if you want to.”

Bucky searches Timu’s face, but he finds himself nodding, because Timu’s managed to charm his damn pants off and that’s—it sounds reasonable. So he takes a deep breath and accepts the soap from Timu, unable to stop himself from lifting it to his face to smell. His eyes flutter shut; it’s just as good as he remembers.

When he looks up again, Timu’s smile has gone gentle, and he looks all satisfied. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks.

Bucky shrugs, but he’s smiling, too, and he feels a little bashful, because it really _wasn’t._ He didn’t panic or anything. “Th-thanks, Timu,” he murmurs, holding the soap close.

Timu’s eyes are twinkling. “You’re welcome, Bucky. Come back and visit when you next buy eggs from Vera, y’hear?” he requests, and the words aren’t a _demand,_ they ring with _if you feel up to it._

Bucky sucks in a deep breath, feeling a little overwhelmed, and his lower lip is quivering, but he nods again, trying not to sniffle. “I will,” he says, and then Timu’s waving happily at him as he walks away, and his chest feels all _full,_ and he can’t wait to get home to Steve and tell him all about it.

He’s just about leaving the last stalls behind when he pauses, right in the middle of the foot traffic. He mutters a sorry to the people he holds up and ducks out of the way, stepping right up to the frankly mind-boggling array of flowers on display. He thinks he might look a little dumbstruck.

“How’s it going?” comes from behind a large collection of roses.

Bucky jumps, but recovers quickly, soap still clutched in his hand like a lifeline. “Um,” he says, because he’s still not sure what he’s doing here. He’s _done,_ he’s gotten all his things and he’s floating on the high of the day but he’s—he’s here.

“Oh, wow, you’re totally lost here, aren’t you? No worries, what’re you looking for?” and that _voice—_ strong but so, _so_ warm, alight with the richness of someone who Bucky might imagine belting out lines on broadway.

Intrigued instead of deterred, Bucky cranes his neck and finds a woman with the most insanely patterned clothes and tattoos of flowers around her wrists like cuffs. He blinks, taken a little by surprise, but then the woman’s cutting off a strip of ribbon and finishing tying another bouquet, and then her attention is on him.

Bucky blinks again. “H-hi,” he stammers, glancing around at the flowers again. He thinks maybe he could live in this smell. “Um, I don’t…” but he trails off, because he really has no idea what he’s doing here.

The woman’s expression, which had been piercing and intense, softens enough for Bucky to relax. “For yourself or someone else?” she asks, gesturing around them so there’s no misunderstanding of what she means.

Bucky bites at his lip, because this wasn’t in the plans, but he supposes while he’s _here,_ he may as well. “My boyfriend,” he murmurs.

The woman’s eyes light up. “You ever bought him flowers before?” she asks.

Bucky shakes his head, because he _hasn’t._ And all of a sudden that is a damn _crime,_ because he’s never brought Steve _flowers._ And Steve deserves not only every single one of these beautiful and awe-inspiring flowers that Bucky is just absolutely taken by, but every flower in the _world._

“Well, I’m sure he’ll love whatever you get him, judging by that smile,” the woman says, mirth dancing in that captivating voice.

Bucky smiles, all bashful and unashamed, because he will never hide how much he loves Steve. Never again. “I don’t know anything about flowers,” he admits.

“What colours does he like?” the woman inquires, hands on her hips like this is the most important question in the world.

All of a sudden, Bucky feels like it _is._ Getting flowers for Steve becomes incredibly important. “Blue,” he says. “And orange. Yellow.” Happy colours.

The woman’s eyes are _dancing._ “Is it for a special occasion?”

Bucky shakes his head again. “No, I just—” and he breaks off, because he doesn’t really know what he was gonna say.

“You just love him,” the woman finishes, grinning. Bucky flushes, but he nods. “Don’t worry, no one needs an excuse to buy flowers. They’re beautiful, and if they make you happy, then that’s all the reason you need!”

Bucky’s nodding along, because the enthusiasm with which this woman is speaking has him agreeing without even thinking too hard about it. And then the woman is _moving,_ and she’s practically gliding around the stall, putting a beautiful selection of flowers together. Bucky has no idea what they’re called, but at the bouquet comes to fruition, his breath is taken away all over again.

The woman presents a choice of ribbon, and Bucky tentatively selects a strip of soft baby blue. The woman gives him a delighted wink, and then she’s trying up the flowers and holding them out for him to take.

He refrains from burying his face in them, but only just.

“Oh, wow. Thank you,” he breathes, staring down at them with wide eyes. “Um, how much?”

The woman pats his arm and he doesn’t even have to stop himself from flinching; he doesn’t even _react_. “Twenty for you. Your man is very lucky, and I only wish I could see his face when you give these to him,” she says with a dreamy smile.

Bucky blinks at her, and returns the smile while he’s pulling out the money. “Maybe I’ll take a picture,” he muses, giving her thirty sneakily enough that she doesn’t notice.

“Well, I sure hope you’ll show me, if you ever think about coming back,” she says, seeming delighted by the idea.

Bucky gets the feeling that she has a _lot_ of friends. “I will. Come back, I mean. Uh, I come here every Monday, usually,” he says, and that’s—that’s a commitment, right there. That’s a routine. He’s coming _back._

The woman near squeals, and Bucky wonders if someone can actually smile too wide. “That’s great! I’m Toiya, then. We gotta be on first name basis if you’re gonna be comin’ round,” she proclaims.

Bucky’s hands are full, so he can’t shake hers, but she doesn’t left her hand to offer. “I’m Bucky,” he replies, and she gives him a fond look.

“Well, Bucky, it’s lovely to meet you. You wanna hurry those flowers along to your boyfriend, then, get them into some water before they wilt,” Toiya says, and Bucky figures that if he gets any happier he’s just gonna float off into the atmosphere.

He’s grinning all the way home, practically bounding up the stairs like an overexcited puppy and almost running into the door. He knocks on it with the hand that’s holding the soap, and he hears Steve stumbling around off the couch and hurrying to open it. The door swings open and Steve looks _worried,_ at first, but then he’s _melting,_ and Bucky sheepishly offers the flowers to him.

“For you,” he murmurs.

Steve’s jaw has dropped open and Bucky spares a thought for the flies he might catch, but then he profers the flowers again and Steve takes them with suspiciously wet, wondering eyes. “You got me flowers?” he asks. His voice is vaguely echoey, like he’s talking from somewhere far away.

Bucky bites at his lip and, now that he has a hand free, he reaches up to cup Steve’s face and pull him down for a kiss that’s so sweet he feels his teeth ache. “Yeah,” he says when they reluctantly pull apart. Steve’s eyes are still wide as saucers. “I walked past this flower stall and— _Steve,_ I didn’t know there were that many flowers in the _world,_ and I just. They were so beautiful, and it smelt like I think heaven might smell and I, uh, I thought of you.”

Bucky ducks his head when he’s done, and maybe Steve’s just gonna be in shock forever, because he still hasn’t let Bucky in the door. Then Steve makes a noise like he might spontaneously combust and reaches out for Bucky’s free hand. Bucky clasps their hands together happily and ushers them both inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

“We gotta put them in water,” Bucky says when the gears turning in Steve’s head get too loud.

Steve nods dumbly, and he’s just staring down at the blooms, breathing in all the scents. “You got me _flowers,”_ he repeats, voice all breathy with awe.

Bucky pauses in the kitchen and searches his face. Steve looks up, blinking, and then his face smooths out into an expression of, well. Love. Bucky _blushes._ “Yeah, well, gotta keep my best guy around somehow, huh,” he jokes, his heart in a vice, and goes to hunt down a vase after he presses a kiss to Steve’s knuckles.

Steve makes another noise that could be interpreted as pain, but Bucky knows he’s just feeling a lot right now. “Flowers, Buck. I—is there a special occasion?” Steve asks, now sounding slightly strangled.

Bucky starts filling up a tall glass, since they don’t have a vase, setting his soap down on the bench beside the sink. He shakes his head. “Nope. Just wanted to give some flowers to you, because you deserve all the nice things and I love you,” he says, turning just in time to see Steve’s face crumple. “Oh,” Bucky breathes, and puts the vase down.

He hurries back over to Steve’s side and wraps him up in a hug, careful of the bouquet that Steve’s holding in both hands, like it’s something so precious it demands all of his attention. Steve shudders under his touch and just turns to mush, sinking into the hug and burying his face in Bucky’s neck, letting go with one hand and wrapping it around Bucky’s waist.

Bucky makes a small noise, holds him tight, his own stomach a whirlwind of butterflies. Just as Steve’s shoulders start shaking, Bucky realises that maybe Steve has _never_ received flowers before. Resolutely, Bucky decides that he is gonna buy flowers for Steve every damn week.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, Stevie,” he starts murmuring when Steve makes a choked off but audible sob. He’s petting a hand down Steve’s spine, eyes closed and trying to project comfort. “I just love you, and, look, I got soap for myself, Steve, I did it, and I felt so good I wanted you to feel the same, too,” he tries to explain.

“You _just_ love me,” Steve echoes thickly, chuckling against Bucky’s neck.

Bucky hums, smiling now. “Yeah, Steve. It’s become a baseline emotion. S’all I can think about, sometimes,” he says, which has Steve huffing out a wet sigh and tightening his hold on Bucky.

Bucky lets out a quiet _oof_ sound at the grip, and Steve sniffles and steps back, wiping at his eyes with his free hand. Bucky reaches up and gently helps him, wiping away the tears and then just holding his face, cradling it between his hands. Steve sniffs again, but he’s looking Bucky in the eye, and he’s smiling, all embarrassed now.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I was crying,” Steve says, trying to cover up the fact that he has _emotions,_ damn it, and _repressed_ ones at that.

Bucky makes a noise of protest, tutting a little, and leans up to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “It’s alright to cry, Steve, you know that. I cry all the time. And I got you _flowers.”_ He’s feeling pretty damn good about it now, actually. He’s gonna have to thank Toiya _so much_ when he sees her next week.

Steve shakes his head like he’s trying to deny himself of how wonderful this feeling is, which would be just like him. “And you got soap,” he murmurs, glancing over to the soap on the bench.

Bucky’s heart soars, because _yeah,_ he got soap! “I did,” he says, ducking his head and grinning at the floor. “Wanna smell it? C’mon, lets put your flowers in water.”

So they put the flowers in the makeshift vase and smell the soap, and Steve is all surprised by how good it smells, and how much it’s actually _good_ for. His eyes go all soft and dopey when Bucky quietly explains that it’ll help his scaring, and Bucky finds himself wrapped in a hug with kisses being peppered all over his face while he laughs and playfully protests.

Steve keeps telling him how proud he is, how _good_ Bucky is, how happy he is. Steve quietly thanks him for the flowers, and then they sit down to eat the massive lunch Steve’s prepared. It’s a huge spread of potato and lemon dahl, rice on the side, steamed greens most likely flavoured with the strangest things (Steve likes to experiment) and salad. Bucky’s stomach gives an impressive rumble when the lid comes off the dahl. 

They eat like they’ve never tasted food before; savouring it slowly, letting the flavours roll over their tongues until Bucky can name each individual spice. The flowers sit in the center of the table, and Bucky catches Steve staring at them with that disbelieving look on his face more than once.

They wash up side-by-side, and then Bucky finds himself staring at the soap like it’s gonna bite him. That’s a silly thought, though, and he pushes it away as soon as it comes. He’s got a skype session with Shira in an hour and a half, and he thinks maybe he’d like to shower before then.

Once he’s put the last pan away and Steve’s wiping down the sink, Bucky takes a breath and picks up the soap. “Wanna shower?” he asks Steve, all nonchalant.

Steve looks up from the sink, the ‘yes’ already on his lips before he gets a look at Bucky’s face and he pauses. His eyes flicker to the soap and back, and then a soft smile drifts onto his face as he figures out what Bucky’s really asking. _Will you be with me while I do something nice for myself in case I freak out?_

“Yeah, Buck, sure. Let me grab our pajamas, yeah? I’ll meet you in the bathroom,” Steve says, pausing by Bucky on his way to drop a kiss to his temple.

Bucky ducks his head, smiling to himself, and nods. “‘Kay,” he agrees.

Steve gives his hand a quick squeeze before wandering off to the bedroom. Bucky looks up in time to catch the glance he gives the flowers.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky looks down at the soap again, turning it over in his metal hand. He can do this. He can totally do something for himself that’s nice and soft and beneficial. He can definitely wash himself with something that won’t irritate his skin. With something that won’t be punishing himself. With something that will be _helping_ his skin, making it feel smooth and less inflamed and itchy and sore.

The next breath he takes is shaky, so he gathers up all his courage and stalks to the bathroom. He spares a thought for the fact that he never really had any use for courage as the Winter Soldier; he’s just had to comply. Now? He needs all the courage he can get, because no one is making him do anything except for himself.

He turns the shower on and holds his hand under the spray while he waits for it to warm up. Once the room starts filling with steam, he slowly unwraps the soap and sets the paper it was covered in aside. He puts it down inside the shower and takes another breath, before he’s tugging his clothes off and letting them drop to the floor.

Steve comes in with their change of clothes, setting them aside and then coming up behind Bucky, crowding him and pressing himself against his back. He’s already naked, and he brushes his lips over the shell of Bucky’s ear, making him shiver.

“You wanna get in?” Steve murmurs, once Bucky’s practically jello against him.

Bucky nods, words proving a little difficult, and Steve leads him under the spray. It’s just on the side of hot, pinking up their skin the moment it cascades down over them. Steve runs his hands through Bucky’s hair, and Bucky lets him guide his head under the water, closing his eyes as it runs down his face.

Once they’re both wet, Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s neck, holding him flush against his own front. “Do you want me to wash you?” he asks, running a hand up Bucky’s side.

Bucky nods against his chest, looking at the soap like it’s gonna bite him, which is ridiculous. The water is a soothing warmth against his back, and the room’s steamy enough that he knows Steve won’t be cold, even though he’s not under the spray. The knowledge comforts him, lets him relax even more, and he doesn’t tense up again when Steve takes the soap in hand.

“I’ll start with your arm, okay?” Steve murmurs, pulling back, taking Bucky’s flesh hand in his.

Bucky bites his lip, but he nods, and Steve smiles at him, all gentle and soft. And the room fills up with the scent of orange blossom and lavender as Steve glides the soap over Bucky’s skin. He starts with Bucky’s forearm, using his hand to spread the suds over Bucky’s hand, paying attention to each individual finger.

Steve moves up Bucky’s bicep, over his shoulder, going slow and rubbing the soap in until Bucky’s head is nearly spinning with how good it feels and smells. As Steve reaches his chest, they swap positions so the soap doesn’t wash right off. Bucky loses himself in the feeling of being washed, letting Steve’s hands roam over him, cleaning him, _caring_ for him.

When Steve reaches Bucky’s left shoulder, he tenses up without meaning to. Steve pauses, and his eyes search Bucky’s; waiting for permission. Bucky looks up at him, at the hair that’s plastered against his forehead, the ruddiness to his cheeks, the soft glimmer in his eye. He shudders, looks down, closes his eyes, but he nods. Trust. He trusts Steve with this.

So Steve carries on, gentle as he uses his palm to spread some of the soap from Bucky’s chest up over the expanse of scar tissue. Bucky focuses on relaxing, on letting himself remember that while this isn’t something necessarily needs or even _deserves,_ it’s nice. It’s nice, and he’s enjoying it, and he can’t wait to feel how soft his dry skin is after, and this is _okay._ It’s fine.

So he breathes evenly, and Steve presses a wet kiss to his cheek and moves on, kneeling under the spray to wash Bucky’s hips, his thighs, his calves, his feet. He’s almost _worshipping,_ and Bucky’s fighting not to feel uncomfortable, to just let himself bask in this. Steve’s pace helps; he goes slow, backs off whenever Bucky’s breath hitches, moves back in when he exhales.

Soon, he’s entirely covered in soap and Steve’s stood up again, smoothing his hands over Bucky’s chest, as though making sure the scent will linger long after they get out of the shower. The soap gets put aside again, and Steve turns them so Bucky’s under the spray. Bucky watches the suds wash away with the water down he drain and finds that he’s feeling a little hazy, like everything’s happening to another person.

And then Steve’s turning the shower off and wrapping a towel around Bucky’s shoulders, standing with him as Bucky blinks owlishly at the wall. Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s temple and Bucky finds himself frowning.

“All clean,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky’s frown smooths out into a tentative smile.

He looks at Steve, finds him grinning, and Bucky lets out a breath, sagging against him. And Steve gladly holds him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe one day i'll add more, but for now this is fin!

**Author's Note:**

> :thumbs-up:
> 
> find me on tumblr at [buckyskillingme.](https://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com)


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